


#casneedsavacation

by Pinkmink, rosie_berber



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Happy, M/M, Summer Vacation, Vacation, World Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-08-08 06:19:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 39,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7746406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pinkmink/pseuds/Pinkmink, https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosie_berber/pseuds/rosie_berber
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I think you need to take Dean and get out of here. Like, on a vacation. I don’t care where you go, and I doubt he does either. But he needs a break from all this, and he won’t do it for himself. But if you offer, he’ll go."</p><p>And so he found himself sitting across the table from the hunter a few hours later, after he gathered his courage, offering to take Dean to some of his favorite spots around the world. Being that in the wake of Amara’s departure he’d found his grace back in tact, he could effectively sweep them away to any destination with a flap of wings. To his surprise Dean hadn’t dismissed it outright, and it took only slight prodding from Mary (who’d been eavesdropping at the door) to convince him to “give this whole vacation thing a try”.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Costa Rica

**Author's Note:**

> This fic started as a joke amongst beta-ing partners, when we would make each other sad with making Cas and Dean suffer through so much angst. That joke grew into this reality, inspired by our deeply held conviction that Cas (and Dean) really deserve a vacation.
> 
> We hope you enjoy! And please, come hang out with us on tumblr.
> 
> \- [rosie](http://rosie-berber.tumblr.com/) and [Pinkmink](https://herpinkminkness.tumblr.com//)

 

“Hola!” the friendly voice called from an adjoining room, hidden from view. “I'll be right with you!”

 

“Thank you,” Castiel answered, walking up to the simple wooden counter, centerstage in the otherwise barren room. The hotel lobby lacks extravagance, sure, but the walls were painted a cheerful yellow, the color of the little faces in texts he sometimes received from Sam. A few pamphlets in Spanish sat in cubbies along on the wall, each promising a unique and beautiful experience of Costa Rica. But there was no pamphlet for the experience he'd planned.

 

“Thank you for waiting.” The voice belonged to a woman of effortless beauty, who had come sweeping out of the side room. She was dressed simply, her brown fuzzy hair pulled neatly into a poof of a braid, her dark eyes highlighted only by her long lashes. She let out a long breath as she flashed him a kind grin, before continuing. “How can I help you?”

 

“We need a room. Errr, a cabin.” Castiel struggled with remembering the right term - his Spanish was rusty. “For three nights. Do you have anything?”

 

“We?” The prod was good-natured, accompanied by a quirked eyebrow at his lack of company as she retrieved a dusty log book from under the counter. Yes, it seems they were quite off the beaten path. Perfect. Just what Dean needs.

 

“My, uh, companion is outside,” Castiel clarified and she nodded, taking a few minutes to detail the cabins she had available. He selected the furthermost one, lining the outside of the small area that comprised all the cabins, and facing the active volcano. It had been nearly dusk as they’d arrived at the offbeat site, and they could see trace amounts of smoke from it pressed against the orange sky. He’d left Dean outside to watch it. Just before passing the threshold to the lobby, Castiel turned to observe him, silently standing and watching it plume. Such a rare gift, to watch Dean taking a moment to just ... be.

 

He found Dean in the same position in the barren area designated as a parking lot, eyes fixed towards the sky. Cas quietly moved towards him, juggling keys and a handful of pamphlets. The kind woman had insisted he take some, explaining that zip-lining and the sky bridges were some of the most beautiful in the world. They’d get to it - they had time. Now it was much more critical that they practice the near-unheard-of art of doing nothing.

 

Dean noticed his approach, a lifetime of hunting rendering him incapable of losing himself completely in any moment. But he smiled, bending at the waist to pick up a small duffle bag and nodding towards the cabin directly in front of him.

 

“I think I saw a monkey, Cas!” he whispered excitedly, and the face he made the angel recognized instantly as the ten year old boy that was still buried within the hunter - that rare face of complete wonder. “In that tree - behind this cabin - just for a second. Come on!”

 

“I am uncertain if the local wildlife will come this close.” Castiel tried, but it was an uphill battle as he was dragged by the hand to the other side of the cabin. The sun had almost completely set now, and the path that curved its way around the cabin was lit with tiny dim solar lights. Dean looked frantically in the young Jobo tree, and with a sigh declared defeat.

 

“I know what I saw,” he insisted as he shrugged. Castiel stifled a laugh, leading the way towards their own cabin, hands still intertwined. It was a new phenomenon, their public display of affection. The last few months following The Darkness had led to some striking discoveries, chief among them Mary, the Winchesters’ mother, who now resided in the bunker with the three of them. But secondarily, and perhaps more important to Castiel (though he loved Mary), was the discovery that Dean shared his affections.

 

It had been a mundane moment in an otherwise ordinary hunt. An acceptable amount of time had passed from the prior crisis, and the familiar stirrings of Dean’s insatiable hunter lust had landed the two of them (Sam had stayed behind with Mary) in Topeka, underneath a cripplingly ancient mansion, clearing out a vampire nest. The first two had been easy - cleanly decapitated from behind. The rest less so, managing to put up a decent fight considering their rather seasoned opponents. Their fighting techniques however, cultivated in the years they’d spent together, were completely in sync. In the end they found themselves covered head to toe in blood surrounded by body parts but victorious, and Cas had reached a hand down to pull the hunter to his feet. Wide green met lidded blue, and the standard sparks flew. Only this time Dean’s reaction was different - he didn’t retreat to his personal bubble, as with most physical contact Cas had offered over the years. He continued to hold Castiel’s hand, beyond what could be deemed as necessary, and smiled, a rare shy smile.

 

“Thanks Cas,” he said, the words carrying a weight of something unseen, but felt by both.

 

“You’re welcome Dean.” Castiel answered with a tilt of his head, following as Dean led them out of the carnage, hands still firmly clasped together.

 

And so it had been, for at least the last month - small glances, before downplayed and ashamed, now somewhat playful and unencumbered. Dean would reach out to squeeze Castiel’s hand under the table during dinner, or let his hand linger too long as he passed him a beer. Tiny, infinitesimal gestures that made Castiel’s entire world stand on its ear.

 

Until finally one day, an aggravated Sam solicited Castiel down to the gun range. Castiel had never missed a shot he took and hardly needed the practice, but was happy to spend some time with his friend.

 

“Alright, I’m going to lay this out for you very plainly,” Sam started, setting down his glock and pulling from his pockets a few loaded clips. He began to take apart the weapon from muscle memory, turning an eyebrow at the angel beside him. “I think you need to take Dean and get out of here. Like, on a vacation. I don’t care where you go, and I doubt he does either. But he needs a break from all this, and he won’t do it for himself. But if you offer, he’ll go.”

 

“What prompted this?” Castiel asked, somewhat thrown by the topic at hand. He thought things with Dean were actually going quite well.

 

Sam sighed, loading the clip finally with a satisfying thwack. “I’ve been talking with Mom and - I just feel terrible. I left, soon as I was old enough to, and went to college. Dean went straight from hunting and raising me, to hunting and watching out for Dad. He’s never had a real vacation, and I guess I never noticed until I was telling her about the last few years.”

 

“You haven’t had any time off either, Sam.” Castiel reached out a hand and affectionately patted the man’s shoulder, and he smiled faintly in response. “We could all go somewhere together.”

 

“Yeah we could - and we will.” He raised the pistol like an extension of his arm and quickly fired fifteen rounds, landing all within inches of one another in the target’s silhouetted head. He unloaded the clip just as fast, letting it drop and grabbed the next one, loading it with a slam. Turning, he offered the pistol to Castiel. “But I think you two should get some time alone. We’re not blind, you know.”

 

“I’m not sure Dean will feel the same way,” he murmured, squaring his body against the target and firing the extent of the clip, blowing an increasingly bigger hole in the same target, the paper face all but gone.

 

“One of you is going to have to make the first move, Cas. If you want anything to happen within his lifetime, I suggest you make it.”

 

And so he found himself sitting across the table from the hunter a few hours later, after he gathered his courage, offering to take Dean to some of his favorite spots around the world. Being that in the wake of Amara’s departure he’d found his grace back in tact, he could effectively sweep them away to any destination with a flap of wings. To his surprise Dean hadn’t dismissed it outright, and it took only slight prodding from Mary (who’d been eavesdropping at the door) to convince him to “give this whole vacation thing a try”.

 

They’d settled on Costa Rica as a primary excursion and Castiel was quietly teeming with excitement, remembering certain aspects of the country he thought Dean would really enjoy. And as they found themselves at the door to their cabin he glanced out of the corner of his eye as one of those aspects came into view.

 

“Oh!” He couldn’t help himself exclaiming, and Dean glanced over his shoulder at him as he swung open the door, revealing the contents of the room with the flip of a light switch.

 

“Two beds?” Dean's voice was unmistakably disappointed, and Castiel heart seized from equal parts excitement and worry. He had requested a standard room as Dean does when hunting with Sam, thinking that would make him to the most comfortable. The slight drop in Dean's shoulders now seemed to indicate something different - had he wanted to share a bed? Images sprang to mind of wrapping his body around Dean's from behind in the dark, humid heat be damned, nosing at the scruff of his neck, feeling his heartbeat from where his fingertips rested on his skin. It was all a little much and he panicked, changing the subject shortly.

 

“Dean, this is what I wanted you to see.” Castiel spoke in hushed tones as if he could possibly frighten away the tiny spots of light he saw beginning to encircle the cabin. He led the uncharacteristically compliant man from their porch to the small patch of grass outside, slowing as they made their way into the darkness.

 

“Oh wow.”

 

And there were hardly any other words to describe the simple beauty they found themselves in. Set against the backdrop of the fresh evening, the area glowed with hundreds of fireflies. Each light was as unique as a snowflake. The varying shades of white ranged from nearly extinguished to so bright Castiel feared the tiny insect was doing itself damage with its posterior enthusiasm. He only paused a moment to take in the sight however, because he was far more transfixed by blond man at his side.

 

Dean didn’t speak, but simply walked amongst them regally, as if walking into a field of starlight. His eyes shone and though his smile was small, it crinkled the lines in his face. A gentle hand reached out curiously, perhaps in an attempt to touch one of the insects, instead having the effect of looking frozen in time. Which he might as well have been in Castiel's mind, as he studied every molecule of the moment - beautiful, serene and rare.

 

“They’re much friendlier than Fairies.” Dean suddenly turned with a wink, as if he'd just remembered Cas was there.

 

“Yes,” he answered, hardly masking the wistful tone his voice carried. Dean seemed attuned to it and moved closer, taking Castiel's hand in his own. They stood for a while in silence, fingers interlocked and soft, taking deep breaths. They fell into a meditation of sorts, drowning in stars and stillness.

 

The moment faded with a sigh from Dean, marking it like the rest of a completed symphony. He turned to Cas, still wearing that smile and drew him in. It was slow movement in reverence, not hesitation or indecisiveness. The angel moved with the pull, closing the gap with great strength, as if he had to move earth with his bare hands to reach Dean. And when they were so tantalizingly close, as natural as drawing breath, he simply tipped his head upward and let Dean wordlessly find his lips in the humid night.

 

When he'd pictured this moment, when he'd dared to, the fantasy had always been accompanied with a sense of frantic urgency. Their last moments, facing certain destruction, the certainty of becoming forever apart, would lead to the desperation of a kiss - ripped from their hearts, raw and messy. Carrying with it the weight of what might have been.

 

But now as he felt Dean slowly move his hands from his lapels to the scruff of his cheeks, he basked in the tender lightness of the moment. How it suddenly made some strange sort of sense - this had always been where they were headed. Each interaction along the way had paved a path so clear to this exact circumstance. And if even one second had been rushed, or overrun, they might never have found themselves here.

 

There was an old adage amongst humans, where they described his Father's plan for an individual’s life by comparing it to a tapestry. From the bottom, it looked a mess - strings frayed and patterns scattered. But from the top all of that seemingly random chaos came together to form a beautiful picture. And for the first time since his creation Castiel could see his own tapestry, messy and chaotic as it has seemed over the years, from the top - where Dean's life interwove and completed his own.

 

Lost in thought, he hardly moved anything but his lips until he felt Dean draw breath suddenly and pull away. His eyes shone, uncertainty and adoration lit in them, clearly visible at such a small distance. Castiel found himself quite unsure how to proceed, except to lean forward and start kissing once again because he was fairly certain he could do that for the rest of his days.

 

“Is this ok?” Dean was saying now and what a dumb question, but Castiel could tell he meant it.

 

“Yes,” he breathed, remembering that he had hands and placing them at Dean's waist, just over his threadbare shirt. “Thank you.”

 

He’d said the words before he'd considered the context, but that hardly seemed to matter as Dean's face split into an amused smile.

 

“Cas, you don't thank someone for a kiss.”

 

“Why not?”

 

Dean's face turned gruff in frustration. “I don't know! You just don't…”

 

Castiel had always been slightly behind in social graces, but he was a quick study. And in pressing his lips again to Dean's, he discovered his new favorite way to shut him up.

 

\-----

 

He woke Dean with a small shake to his bare shoulder. The man lay curled up in the fetal position, still facing the opposing bed Castiel had tried to sleep in before deciding that there was far too much adrenaline coursing through him to do so. Dean was far from a morning person, and he responded to the movement with a groan and feeble swat.

 

Emblazoned from their evening with the fireflies, Cas tried a different approach. He leaned forward over the bed, pressing a soft kiss against a sharp cheek bone and carefully lowering a steaming cup of coffee within sniffing distance. Dean's response was immediate - a broad smile split his face and he sighed contentedly, slowly blinking open his eyes. They were a different shade in the intimacy of the morning - a lighter green, matching the color of the resurrection ferns Castiel had wandered through in his early morning walk.

 

“That is my second favorite way to wake up,” Dean winked, sitting up to press his back against the headboard and take the warm cup from him. Castiel took a seat in the freshly available space, extending a hand to gently rest on Dean's thinly blanketed shin. The beds, as they'd discovered after they'd sat outside under the stars for hours, had been far too small for grown men to share. And as it stood, however, there hadn't been any urgency in progressing their physical intimacy - much like their kiss, which felt cosmically timed, rushing to the finish line of sex felt out of place. Instead they seemed to unspokenly agree to let the flow of their romance sort itself out, piece by piece.

 

“So, what’s the plan?” Dean asked, letting the steaming cup rest against his bare chest.

 

“Plan?” Castiel replied, worrying that his carefully laid plan of ‘nothing in particular’ would be unsatisfactory. “Well, I - there are these pamphlets-”

 

“I mean food, Cas. Breakfast? I’m starving.”

 

Oh that. As if on cue, a deep rumble cut across the room from Dean’s stomach. He smirked. “There is breakfast in the lobby - it’s a little buffet. I didn’t get you anything because I wasn’t sure what you wanted…”

 

Castiel’s voice trailed off distractedly as Dean leaned closer, setting the coffee on the nightstand and eyeing him with like a predator does his prey. Dean took a long hard look at Castiel’s lips, letting his tongue dart across his own briefly, as if the sight reminded him of their parched state. Then he kissed him once again, and that tiny voice of doubt Castiel had about the progression of their relationship following the crossing of that first line was silenced. It hadn’t been a fluke - this was their new, glorious, ‘normal’.

 

Dean pulled back but not far, and had the devil in his eyes as he replied. “Probably for the best. I’m not sure what I’d do if you brought me breakfast in bed.”

 

 

\-----

 

As it turned out, neither of them were interested in visiting the more tourist friendly areas, and had decided on a day of aimless wandering. After breakfast they’d discovered that the hotel was able to arrange rental vehicles (and to their surprise, no one asked how they’d gotten there without one) and so they’d taken off, in a single direction, to explore the beautiful, wild jungle they found themselves in. The vehicle was small and nearly without horsepower, and Dean grumbled and cursed as he manually shifted up steep hills and through one lane bridges. But it was otherwise a calm and light drive - neither seeming to be able to keep from smiling.

 

At one point they had to stop the car in the middle of the road for a sloth, as it lazily crossed in front of them. Dean tried to get out of the car to spook the lazy animal from the road faster, but Castiel had taken hold of his arms and they struggled against each other teasingly, arms tangled, bodies tickled and ending breathless just as the sloth made its way safely into the foliage. Naturally, Dean had declared himself victorious.

 

For two individuals who had a hard time turning off their ‘situational awareness’ and relaxing, they were exceedingly slow to notice the bright yellow signs that seemed to pop against the green of the rainforest every hundred yards or so. The red lettering on them was so shoddily painted that it was nearly illegible, but there was one word that Dean could seem to read under any circumstances.

 

_“Free Beer - tomorrow - Toad Hall”_

 

“Well that’s a dirty trick…” he murmured, squinting at the sign as they drove by it, and Castiel snorted a laugh.

 

"Perhaps we should go tomorrow and demand the beer for free?" Cas suggested.

 

"With that logic we could go today and demand it. There wasn't exactly a date on that sign." Dean grinned. "Why Cas? Are you offering ruffle some feathers just so I get some booze?"

 

"I think the world owes you more than a free drink." Castiel's voice was softer and Dean responded to it, reaching across the small expanse between them and patting his leg gently.

 

"I think the world has given me exactly what I need."

 

Castiel could hardly keep his heart from bursting at the small admission, turning instead to see the next yellow sign as it came into view.

 

_"Toad Hall - Best Fish Tacos on the Planet!"_

 

"That's a pretty bold claim for some place in the middle of nowhere." Dean barked a laugh, the sound lighting up the car. Castiel had to admit he couldn't recall ever seeing him so beautifully unencumbered. It was as if their remote location, the fact that everything was so strikingly different than anything in the States - it seemed to fill Dean with a vigorous sense of wanderlust. Castiel had softly pushed Costa Rica when the topic of “where” had appeared, hoping the country’s simplicity would be a welcomed departure from lives complicated by curses and malevolent deities and the family business. Looking at him now, the bright sun in his eyes, highlighting the smattering of freckles hidden in his laugh lines, he knew that for once, he'd made a good call.

 

"Crap, another one?!" Dean exclaimed and Castiel followed his finger to the next yellow sign, this one declaring: _"Ice Cold Beer - Frosty mug - Toad Hall."_

 

"I feel it's safe to assume they have beer, free or not." Castiel deadpanned, and Dean responded with another laugh. Spotting signs then became a sort of game, and they now eagerly looked for the next one.  It appeared just a minute later as they pulled around a curve.

 

_"Toad Hall - Great Shopping."_

 

"Ugh, nope. I'm out. Not even the best fish tacos on the planet could get me to shop." Dean pressed his foot even further towards the floor, blazing through the next few yellow signs, each declaring additional perks to visiting the establishment, none more appealing than beer.

 

In no time at all they found themselves passing by the “famed” Toad Hall - a rickety looking building on their left, covered in gaudy decorations and surrounded by lush trees and flowers. Though the exterior was built of stone, it had the appearance that a strong wind could possibly blow it over - not that there was any wind, save the occasional breeze that temporarily relieved the perspiration growing at their temples from the humidity.

 

They continued driving, though Castiel could sense that Dean was getting hungry. Then again, he didn't exactly need to be attuned to the hunter's every movement and noise to guess that, as he was quite literally always ready to eat. A final yellow sign came into their visage, this one declaring:

 

_"Turn Around - Last Cold beer for 20km - Toad Hall"_

 

"Damn it! Fine!" Dean declared with a smirk, and shifted gears to turn around and head back. "They're really selling this beer!"

 

They parked next to a few cars - the place was, for lack of a better term, not exactly 'hopping' with people. Making their way through a cluttered lobby that was well stocked with everything from Christmas ornaments to diapers, their shorts-clad legs bumped together in tiny aisles. Dean had insisted that Castiel not tell another entity (living or dead) that he wore them, but the truth was Cas couldn't help but admire his legs - lean and slightly curved, dusted with freckles and pale blond hair. On the other side a small hostess station stood as the gateway to an expansive outdoor patio. They were led to a tiny table, iced glasses of water set down in front of them. A few other young people were sparsely placed in tiny tables and lush chairs, eating contentedly in the umbrellaed sunshine.

 

"I think this is a hostel as well." Castiel remarked, looking over his shoulder at a gate behind them declaring, in Spanish " _Guests of Toad Hall only past this point._ "

 

"What like, the movie?" Dean quirked an eyebrow, his hand twitching involuntarily towards the knife he always kept at his side.

 

"Of course not," Castiel scoffed, looking over the basic menu. Burgers, fries, Gallo Pinto - and naturally, the beer, though disappointingly, not free. "That movie was quite a false representation of these sorts of places."

 

"Yeah well, it would be just our luck…."

 

"I think we actually have had quite good luck this trip." Castiel remarked pointedly, taking a deep breath of very humid, yet strangely fresh air.

 

Something in the tone of his response made Dean look up from his menu and take a beat, reaching across the table and squeezing the top of Castiel's hand. His fingers were calloused where they made contact with soft knuckles. "Yeah Cas, you're right. This has been really great. Sorry."

 

He softened at Dean’s words, the tension leaving his shoulders. "No apology necessary - I'm just glad you're enjoying yourself."

 

"Well, yea. I mean, look at this place." Dean sat back and took in the view - the patio was on the edge of a sloped mountain, the area surrounding them lush and unpopulated, as if Toad Hall had been an insistent weed that had grown amongst perfectly manicured rainforest. "I've never seen so much green in my whole damn life. I don't think I've ever see this color green before, except maybe in a book."

 

"It is extraordinary." Castiel whispered, referring less about their surroundings, and more about their circumstances.

 

"Thanks for this, Cas. For dragging me away." The soft tone from Dean drew the angel’s attention back to him, and the green gaze was downturned, as if embarrassed. "I uh, I don't want to talk about…" he paused, looking up and gesturing between the two of them. "But uh, this is nice. If it's nice for you, I mean."

 

"I like it very much, Dean." Castiel responded, holding back the barrage of lovelorn confessions just resting on his tongue, instead relinquishing control of the cadence of this moment to Dean. As it stood, he'd waited this long to simply show a small amount of well received affection - as desperately as he wanted Dean to understand how he truly felt about him, the slow progression of this transition had its own aching beauty.

 

"Cool." Dean replied with an adorable toothy grin, effectively ending what constituted as his definition of the “big talk.” And it would do for now, as talks go - as long as the kissing could continue even after they leave the safe isolation of the tropics.

 

Finally the young waitress made her way to their table. Dean ordered two cheeseburgers and beers, surprisingly bumbling his way through the few Spanish words he knew. The food was hardly set on the table before Dean dug in, devouring the rather simple burger in several choke inducing bites.

 

"Holy shit. _CAS_ ," he moaned his name, and Castiel could hardly help the way he shifted his legs at noise, suddenly wanting Dean to make it again in a much more private context. "This _burger_. It's _unreal_."

 

"The cow was likely butchered locally," he mused, indulging himself as he reached forward and wiped a stray bit of ketchup from the corner of Dean's mouth. "It's basically the sort of organic beef you pay a great deal for back home."

 

"Well shit." Dean wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I guess Sammy was right about food for once - now that's two things you can't tell him when we go back."

 

"Your secret shorts are safe with me." Castiel tried a wink, feeling that he looked a little too presumptuous but Dean grinned anyway, reaching across the table and pausing just above the burger that Castiel had eaten about half of. Castiel faked an exasperated nod as the food was snatched from his plate. He enjoyed eating with Dean though he couldn't taste the food himself. But if this burger was going to elicit those sorts of sounds from the hunter, he'd gladly sacrifice the remainder.

 

The bill came and Dean paid it, insisting "plastic works everywhere" and anyway, Castiel had not thought ahead about something so banal as currency. He'd have to remedy that for the next trip - and he hoped feverishly that there would be one.

 

As they departed their strange lunch spot, a loud squawk turned both their heads and there, in a large cage on the far edge of the patio, was a magnificent toucan. The blood red feathers ruffled and calmed, extending its wings halfheartedly. Dean seemed to approach the bird with a sense of wonder, and Castiel paused to wonder if Dean had ever been to a zoo. Looking at him now, with both hands extended forward as if to catch it if it flew out, Castiel couldn’t help vowing to himself that as long as Dean would let him, he’d keep showing him the wonders of the world. He deserved to comprehend and explore the world he’d sacrificed so much to save.

 

On the cage was a little explanation about the toucan and it read (in English and Spanish) that the strong bird had been rescued, having damaged its wing and could no longer fly. Castiel gave a small sigh of empathy with the creature - he knew what that was like.

 

"His name is Sam!" Dean burst out laughing, pointing at the tiny sign. "Toucan Sam! Like from the cereal."

 

"I don't understand that reference." Castiel frowned, disappointed that Metatron's download lacked seemingly basic breakfast food knowledge.

 

"Oh it's, just a mascot," Dean explained hurriedly while turning back to the bird. Sam slowly turned his head, focusing one sharp eye on Dean. "We should take a picture with it - for Sammy!"

 

They found themselves crowding and crouching together, trying to get exactly the right angle that would fit both of their heads and the sizeable bird on the tiny screen of Dean's smart phone. Their heads ended up pressed together, and after they heard the click of the camera, Dean turned suddenly to press a kiss against Castiel's forehead, almost as an afterthought.

 

"If we do this again, I think we should get a better camera," Castiel started, unsure if he was pushing with the suggestion but feeling bold. "Smartphone cameras are fun for working shots, but they don't come close to encompassing the majesty of a scene."

 

"Yeah, that sounds great," Dean agreed and Castiel took that as his subtle way of agreeing to vacation with him again. And he succeeded in suppressing the huge grin that gave away just how happy that made him.

 

The rest of the day passed with that same sort of giddy enthusiasm - they drove around idly, with no destination in mind, stopping along the way to take a small hike ("To look for monkeys," Dean had insisted), ending up at a beautiful waterfall. In the evening they found themselves at a relatively inexpensive hot springs, eating and drinking things Dean insisted were absolutely delicious. Time passed too quickly - and although Castiel had always been aware of their natural compatibility, he'd been slightly worried that their friendship was easier to sustain in crisis mode, given that was where it was forged and developed. But here, amongst the trees and the frogs and the gentle sounds of cicadas, shirtless and sitting in a warm pool of sulfur laden water, conversation sprinkled with a dash of affection came easily to them. It was heavenly.

 

They were both more than a little disappointed when Dean checked his phone once they'd reached their cabin, a message waiting from Sam explaining that he was "so, so sorry guys" but that there was a fairly insistent "wendigo hell beast" terrorizing through the southern part of Louisiana and it would be "great" if they could "try to get back as soon as possible."

 

"Guess the honeymoon's over," Dean huffed, and then caught himself as a blaze of red rushed to his cheeks. "I mean, not that this-"

 

"This has been wonderful." Castiel reached his hand out, masking the grin Dean's insinuation threatened to surface. “And I know you don't enjoy chick flick moments, but…"

 

"You know, with you Cas, they aren't so bad." Dean took the outstretched hand, closing the gap between them and pressing a kiss against Castiel's warm lips.

 

The moment was absolutely perfect, and Castiel cataloged each sensation - Dean's short breath against his cheek, the way his hand gripped his own tight enough to hurt, the sound of the air conditioning rumbling around them, giving the room a biting chill. His entire being fought every urge he had to throw him to the bed and feel his lithe form wriggle underneath him - but duty called. At least it seemed he had accomplished his mission - Dean was considerably more relaxed and as he pulled away the look in his eyes told him that the next crisis wouldn't change the progress that was made here.

 

 

\-----

 

Later, after the beast was extinguished and they were back at the bunker, Castiel briefly overheard Dean and his mother in the kitchen, the former recounting their evening with the fireflies.

 

"It sounds beautiful sweetie." Mary's voice carried her smile with it. "But you didn't answer my question."

 

There was silence, and Castiel wondered for a moment if either hunter had picked up on his presence, just outside of the door. He was, after all, being incredibly rude, and although the small amount affection had continued between them since they’d gotten back, there had been no further discussions as to what that truly meant. Listening now may mean that he’d get a glimpse into what Dean may think is truly going on between them.

 

Finally Dean spoke, and he could practically hear the heat rushing to his freckled cheeks.

 

"Yeah Mom, I kissed him."

 

"And?"

 

"And what?"

 

"How was it?"

 

"….are we really doing this?"

 

"Indulge me, Dean." Mary's tone was long suffering. "I wasn't around for your first kiss - you would have gotten this treatment then too."

 

Dean sighed, and Castiel worried that perhaps he shouldn't be listening. Maybe he didn't really want to know, in case it was horrible and Dean was just lonely and….

 

"It was amazing, Mom." A pause. "I'd been waiting so many years for it and - it was perfect."

 

A small high pitched noise that sounded like a tea kettle erupted from the kitchen, and it was only in modulation of the sound that Castiel realized it was coming from Mary. Dean huffed.

 

"Alright - that's enough! End of indulgence. Back to catching you up on all the television you've missed…"

 

Castiel took leave of his eavesdropping, fearing the roaring sound of his heart would give him away.


	2. Berlin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your kind comments and kudos! It makes your humble authors’ hearts grow two sizes when we see you are enjoying this. End of this chapter is NSFW.

_“Instead of forever hovering above, I'd like to feel there's some weight to me, to end my eternity and bind me to earth. At each step, each gust of wind, I'd like to be able to say "Now... now and now", and no longer say "since always" and "forever"... It would be quite something to come home after a long day like Philip Marlowe and feed the cat, to have a fever, to have blackened fingers from the newspaper, to be excited not only by the mind, but, at last, by a meal, the curve of a neck, by an ear. To lie... through the teeth! To feel your skeleton moving along as you walk. Finally, to suspect, instead of forever knowing all. To be able to say 'ah' and 'oh' and 'hey' instead of 'yes' and 'amen'.”_ _  
_

_-Damiel, Der Himmel über Berlin (Wings of Desire), 1987_  


It is not until the smoke begins to billow from the burning Wendigo corpse that Castiel first lets himself begin to fantasize about the next place he planned to whisk Dean away to. He let the three Winchesters ride together from Louisiana towards the bunker as he ran the necessary errands, hoping he wasn’t too presumptuous in thinking Dean would be ready for another trip so soon. Still, thus far his initiative had been rewarded in the divine form of Dean’s smile and laughter and, most heavenly of all, his kisses.

 

The drive would take the better part of a day’s time. Dean, of course, would refuse to let anyone else drive, so when they did get back to Kansas, he’d need some time to rest, to recover. Castiel had waited the better part of a decade to decisively act on his feelings for Dean, but now the mere thought of having to wait at least twenty-four hours before they could once again be alone together seemed like a form of cruel torture. He braced himself to endure it without mention, knowing that Dean could not yet handle such an admission.

 

The sun is directly overhead in Lebanon when the angel returns. Three pairs of boots are messily strewn near the entrance, as if kicked off absent-mindedly by each of their owners. Castiel searches for signs of life within the bunker, noting Sam and Mary’s bedroom doors are closed shut. He walks past Room 11, its door ajar, tentatively pushing the wooden door to find Dean positively passed out across his bed, not even bothering to strip himself of his clothing, covered in the stains that typically accompanied a rigorous hunt. Castiel turns to leave, to close the door and let the man rest when he hears the hunter grumble.

 

“That you, Cas?” Dean manages to ask, his heavy inhales and exhales indicating he was nowhere near ready to wake.

 

The angel stops in his tracks, not sure how to proceed. He moves closer to the bed, his feet treading softly on the floor, unwilling to disturb the hunter’s much-deserved rest. He finds himself seated on the edge of the mattress, unconsciously moving his hand to run gentle strokes across Dean’s forehead. Castiel is unsure if it is the small affectionate gesture or Dean’s sleep-addled mind that makes the request, but he is certain he does not care. Because when Dean Winchester asks you to spoon him, you do it.

 

Day has long since blended into night when Dean first stirs, greeting consciousness while in Castiel’s tight embrace. The feeling of being held is unfamiliar and yet, perfectly natural. He rolls over, yawning a “good morning” when his eyes first meet pools of blue.

 

“Actually, it’s midnight,” the angel responds, brushing a few rebellious hairs away from Dean’s forehead.

 

“Morning somewhere,” Dean remarks as he rubs the sleep from his eyes.

 

“That it is. Maybe we could go explore that morning somewhere together?” Castiel inquires, seizing the opening.

 

Dean answers the question with a kiss.

  
“I’ll go get my boots.”

 

\-----

 

They re-emerged some six thousand miles away in a subway station so crowded that their sudden presence went unnoticed. A multitude of languages floated past Dean’s ears, making it difficult at first for him to place exactly where it is he and Castiel had landed. A language he does not recognize but can muddle his way through is scrawled across the tile lining the station. A moustached middle-aged man is captivated by a story in the Berliner Morgenpost; in the adjacent recycling bin he sees a discarded Berliner Zeitung.  
  
“So...Berlin?” He turns to his companion for confirmation.  
  
“Indeed. It’s quite different from our last destination, but it too has much to offer.”  
  
Dean is about to make a sarcastic remark about how he could barely tell the difference between the two places as the train arrives. They step onto the subway car, finding seats amongst the denizens of the once-divided city. Dean should feel unnerved by this whole experience - being zapped from country to country. After all, he is used to being in control; when he is behind the wheel of the Impala, he decides where to go and how to get them there. Except now, he is not driving, but rather, a passenger amongst strangers. And even though that should scare him, it doesn’t. He can’t yet say it aloud, but there is a comfort, a relief in being at the whim of where Castiel wants to take him next.  
  
These are the thoughts passing through Dean’s mind abruptly ended with a flash. Not from anything celestial, but from the camera hanging around Castiel’s neck. Dean had insisted it made him look like a dorky tourist, but was secretly pleased that Castiel was collecting mementos of all these wonderful places for when they returned to real life. So his outrage is of the feigned, exaggerated sort when he turns to the angel, already armed with a response.  
  
“Candid shots are the best Dean.” True to form, the words fall from Castiel’s mouth with such confidence as if no argument could possibly be waged. Before long, Castiel grabs Dean’s hand, just as the conductor announces _die nächste Station ist Zoologischer Garten._ “This is us,” Castiel states, matter of factly as he guides Dean by the hand off the train car.  
  
Yes, _this is us_ , Dean thinks, the continued touch warming him to his core.

 

\-----

 

The two exit the station, emerging into the city, a synthesis of green and concrete awaiting them. And a stand selling something called _currywurst_ , which Dean’s grumbling stomach decides might be delicious enough to try. Apparently, his stomach speaks loud enough for Castiel to hear.  
  
“You’re hungry.”  
  
Dean shuffles his boots against the sidewalk. “Only a little. I can wait.”  
  
Castiel reaches his hand to touch Dean’s shoulder, wrapping each of those elegant fingers around the muscle in precisely the place he had first touched the man. He hears the echoes within Dean’s stomach and wishes to remedy that problem as soon as possible. “Dean, you don’t need to.”  
  
Dean lifts his gaze from the awkward dance of his feet on the cement to meet Castiel’s eyes, kindness and warmth beaming from the blue. “Actually, I do - I only have American cash on me, and I doubt that guy wants anything to do with Lincoln or Hamilton. Can we find an ATM?”  
  
“ _Geldautomat._ ”  
  
“What now?”  
  
“ _Geldautomat._ That’s the word for it in German. But no, we don’t need to find a _Geldautomat_.” Castiel opens his wallet and pulls out a five Euro note, grey and smaller than the rainbow of other bills currently encased in brown leather, procuring the sausage treat for Dean’s culinary pleasure.  
  
With a shy smile, Dean offers his version of gratitude, gently shoving Castiel’s chest and making a joke about him being a sugar daddy. “You better watch it, I could get used to being spoiled like this.”  
  
Castiel blushes, wanting to do nothing more than to fashion himself a soapbox, to scream to Dean and anyone else who might be listening, that, if he had his way, he would indulge his every whim to the end of days. Which, given their luck, would probably be in the forseeable future. But still, the sentiment stands.

 

“It is strange. I don’t know what I imagined, but I didn’t picture so many trees,” says the man whose eyes match their verdant surroundings, taking in the scent of his first meal on this continent.

  
“This place, it’s called _der Tiergarten_ ,” Castiel mentions, adopting the persona of tour guide. “It’s massive. There is definitely something astounding about those bits of forest and jungle and desert whose soil and sand have no footprints amongst them. But I have to say, I prefer this.” His neck shifts from left to right, taking in the panorama of the scenery. “The blend between the manmade and the natural. Dad’s greatest hits.” The colloquial phrase falls through Castiel’s lips and immediately paints a smile across Dean’s face. It is so beautiful Castiel barely wants to proceed from the spot.  
  
“Dean…”  
  
“Yeah Cas?” Dean mumbles through a mouth full of his first bite, clearly on board with currywurst.  
  
“Can you wait here by yourself a few moments? I thought I could check us in at our hotel, drop off our bags, _und so weiter_.”  
  
“I have no idea what that last thing you said is and I’m hoping it’s something I don’t regret agreeing to, but yes, I can wait. I will wait.”  
  
And with a flap of his wings, Castiel and their bags were gone.

 

\-----

 

Dean is still mourning the last bite of the delicious encased meat when he is startled by Castiel’s silent return. For many years he’d found the angel’s sudden presence a nuisance, attributed primarily with his desire to have complete control over every situation. Now he was beginning to appreciate the adrenaline rush that came with the surprise. Still, he had to keep up appearances.  
  
“As long as I live, I will never get used to that.”  
  
Castiel offers a nervous smirk, one that does not reveal the obscene happiness he feels overtaking his body. But he cannot deny that it fills him with an immense pleasure that Dean has just, unconsciously, imagined Castiel around for the rest of his life. The angel collects himself, and extends a crooked elbow to Dean.  
  
“Shall we?”

 

Dean rolls his eyes at the gesture, but nevertheless hooks his arm within. Within minutes they are at the entrance of _der Zoologischer Garten Berlin_. Castiel avoids meeting Dean’s eyes with his own as he offers a confession.

 

“I’ve been to some of these on each continent your kind calls home,” Castiel says, standing in front of the two gigantic stone elephants of the gates. “I think I understand the appeal, of having little pieces of the whole world at your disposal. Your species is still so stationary.” Dean rolls his eyes at the inadvertent insult. Castiel continues without notice. “The creatures here are each magnificent - the sheer variety is incredible. But it is - I just - I find no joy in looking at lives spent within cages.”

 

Dean meets the admission with nothing but an understanding nod. There are many things for which he will mock the angel, but the depths to which he cares and feels - that is something for which Dean does not want Castiel to feel an ounce of shame. It was once posed to him that Castiel’s weakness was that he had too much heart, but Dean refuses to recognize that characteristic as anything but his greatest attribute.

 

And so the two turn from the modern equivalent of the ark towards a magnificent gold and granite column in the near distance, penetrating the seemingly endless expanse of trees surrounding them. The complexion of the angel at its top, luminescent even on this overcast day, reflects the golden flecks in Dean’s eyes. “Definitely puts the Winchester tree topper to shame,” Dean jokes as they proceed to what Castiel informs him is called _die Siegessäule._

 

“It’s interesting it makes you think about Christmas trees. The German _Tannenbaum_ is the modern origin of that particular tradition...” As the two men walk towards the massive structure in the distance, Castiel continues to talk a mile a minute about all the different depictions of his kind amongst humanity. It’s the sort of thing Dean would usually meet with sarcasm or referential humour as he can sense the angel’s nerves, but in this moment, those instincts are numbed. He finds himself entirely captivated by the monologue and its maker. And so he is not prepared to be ripped from this immediacy, this wonderful, new bliss, when Castiel relays that “the pious here decorated with celestial symbols as an homage to … Gabriel.”

 

Looks of horror find themselves plastered across both men’s faces, as if their minds travelled to one place at the same time, imagining the archangel’s _Casa Erotica_ visage topping trees across the world. Castiel is first to purge the image from his mind. “Still, it’s a nice thought - the natural redefined by something human. The heavens and the earthly merged into one.” He keeps his next thought private: _what could be more perfect?_

 

_\-----_

 

It is only on rare occasions that Castiel feels no guilt or inhibition in his use of his powers for purely selfish reasons. This moment - stopped in front of the triumphant tower - is one such occasion. For as soon as they stopped in front of the Victory Column, Castiel’s celestial ears pick up on the acceleration of Dean’s heart, his breath becoming slightly more strained. And as he reaches to take Dean’s hand into his own, he notices how a cool clamminess has overtaken it. Of course Castiel did not mention to Dean that he could detect all of his signs of nervousness, knowing full and well the hunter would never wholly admit to his fear of heights. Castiel simply took Dean’s hand into his own, as if to say, without words, there was no cause for alarm, so long as he was at his side. The simple token of affection enough as they spiral towards the sky, together. Each of the hundreds of steps they ascend a reminder that Dean was willing to confront his fears, so long as his guardian angel was at his side. In time they reach the top, slowly taking in the vantage point of the city akin to Castiel’s golden relative perched upon its top.

“Quite the view,” Dean whispers to Castiel, a slight tremble still clinging to his voice, his body leaning into the other man’s for support. Castiel turns to his partner, whose eyes take in a small stretch of the world he had undoubtedly saved from ruin on numerous occasions.

_“That it is.”_

 

_\-----_

 

Their feet draw concentric circles around the structure’s perimeter, Castiel never letting go of the death grip Dean has on his hand. He manages to, one-handedly, turn his camera towards the cityscape before them, securing a few shots of the skyline. But he is far more interested in Dean, snapping several profiles of the hunter lost in thought; he captures the precise moment of exaggerated exasperation when he had suggested they take a “selfie” together. Another where Dean is mid-rant about how he is going to kill Sammy for teaching Cas that term. And of course, his most prized celluloid of all: where his arms extend to their limits as he victoriously fits the two of them in the frame, his head held and pressed against Dean’s chest.

A set of sensible shoes and a pair of worn leather boots leisurely tread throughout the city, no clear destination expressed or needed. They stop whenever Dean sees something striking (even if that something is sometimes no more than a goofy grin plastered across Cas’s face), the roll of film rotating through the camera. Around them cranes at work, lifting steel beams to erect new buildings amongst the old. It is amongst this flurry of activity Dean finds a building of which he cannot make sense. “What’s that, Cas?” he asks solemnly, as if the question is sacred, as he  points to the ruins of an old church.

“ _Die Gedächtniskirche,"_ the angel softly responds. “It was beautiful but - the war - it was bombed.” Castiel is finding himself suddenly inarticulate. He struggles to explain the meaning of the memorial to Dean. “They took this hollow, burned thing and left it as is. A reminder of a time that the whole country wants to collectively forget, but chooses not to. That no matter how many beautiful new glass buildings are erected around it, they are still haunted by - still connected to - the past.”

They walk quietly for some time after that. Castiel’s raw description of the structure harkening too close to home on another level for the both of them, they walk together for a time in contemplative silence.The two foreigners who tread across the streets are not unlike the city itself, simultaneously showing its age and its youth, its beauty and its scars. Its history - glorious and difficult - is nakedly on display for their mutual witness.

As they enter the frenzy that is the public square of _der Potsdamer Platz_ , Castiel knows Dean should eat again. He knows he could whisk Dean away to any of a number of fine dining establishments in downtown Berlin. But Castiel has a sneaking suspicion that Döner followed by beer would be a better fit for his current company. Three bites into the kebab, as Dean whimpers his approval, Castiel’s intuition appears to have been correct.

They relocate to a pub, a venue at which Dean would feel at ease no matter its national setting. Their server makes suggestions for different German beers they could try, much to Dean’s delight. They sit, making aimless conversation, laughing and drinking the early evening away. Castiel tries to commit to memory every aspect about the establishment, convinced there will have to be some alterations to his own personal heaven to include this place.

Dean is three pints deep when he feels bold enough to move his hand from the sticky table to rest on Castiel’s thigh. It hesitatingly lands just above his knee, softly planted, until Dean sees Cas’s eyes widen with wonder. Dean responds with a laboured chuckle, the kind that announces that yes, he is a man in his late thirties and he **is** nervous to touch the person he so willingly has allowed himself to whisk him around the world. But his own adolescent anxiety is no match for the happy hope he now finds residing in Castiel’s expression. And so, as the two continue on in conversation - about what seems insignificant now - Dean leaves his hand there, allowing the tips of his fingers to scribble patterns in the thin piece of fabric that serves now as the only barrier between him and Cas’s everything.

Thanks for today, Cas.” Dean keeps his eyes fixed on the point where they’re joined. “For Costa Rica, for - just all of it. I keep uh, expecting for this to be some sort of hoodoo dream I’m stuck in.”

Castiel meets the words with an abrupt but tender kiss.

“What was that for?” Dean gasps in response.

“Seemed nicer than pinching you. To you know, convince you this is all real.”

Dean huffs out a pleased smirk before diverting his gaze towards the bottom of his glass, which suddenly seems fascinating.

“Dean, you deserve this. _We deserve this_. And we are not going home until you accept that.”

“Cas, that hardly makes the prospect of agreeing with you alluring.”

Castiel grunts a small laugh in response. “I’m glad you have had a pleasant day. If you’re feeling up to it - there’s something else I’d like to do tonight.”

“I’m feeling pretty pliable,” Dean responds, gesturing towards his near empty glass before wiggling his eyebrows towards the angel.

“Well, we’ve had dinner. How would you feel about a movie?” Castiel asks, a single finger grazing lightly over Dean’s wrist, a touch that sends shivers down Dean’s spine.

_  
“It’s a date.”_

 

_\-----_

 

Before long, the two find themselves in line before a ticket counter of _das Kino_ , Castiel purchasing tickets to some title in German. Dean felt himself uncharacteristically non-argumentative about the film choice, mostly looking forward to two hours in the dark next to Cas, hoping it to be the prelude to other activities in the dark as the evening moved forward. The two walk in, hand in hand, Dean elated by the fact that the theatre too sold beer. Germany, as it turned out, was Dean’s kind of place. They settle into the red plush seats, Cas’s head quickly finding its way to rest gently on Dean’s shoulder. A right hand and left hand joined together, fingers interlaced as the reel begins to roll.

A calligrapher's pen quickly scribing words made intelligible by the subtitles, followed by dreamy aerial shots of the city they had spent the day traversing. The world of this Berlin is black and white, older, still divided. Then, an angel, clad in a trenchcoat, stares down at the city, his wings slowly fading into the backdrop. Only the children of the city have the imagination and wonder to look towards the clouds and recognize his presence. The adults’ thoughts, perceptible to the invisible angel, are plagued with worry and strife. The camera pans out, exposing the building on which the angel is perched: the church of which Dean and Castiel had had their moment of reverence just hours before.

The film follows two weary witnesses to this world - the angels Damiel and Cassiel. Each is moved deeply by the thoughts and feelings of the inhabitants of the city, without possessing the ability to participate. They are privy to the citizens’ public joy - the purpose a parent finds in their infant’s smile  - and to the abundance of their private agony  - thoughts of loneliness and desperation that seem like ceaseless floods in the consciousness of the citizens commuting throughout the city. They weave their way through public squares and subway cars, city libraries and skyscrapers and, of course, pause for reflection atop the golden angel Dean now knew intimately. The film moves through and observes the city with the patience of its protagonists. It is a world of flight and groundedness, of hope and desperation, of heaven and earth, of greyscale and colour.

Perhaps most importantly, the movie tells a story of an angel in love. An extension of the divine enamoured with the human, Damiel longs to do more than watch this world, but rather, to become part of it. Without remorse, he forfeits his immortality to taste of that which is manmade, convinced that despite their limits and struggles, the human realm is superior to the heavenly.

When the credits roll, Dean delivers a single tight squeeze to Castiel’s hand before letting go.

As they exit the building, Castiel absent-mindedly fiddles with the ticket stubs in his pocket, anxious about the quiet reception. “I know that wasn’t the type of movie you would typically go to see, Dean. Slow, quiet, foreign. Probably two very boring hours, in retrospect. I just thought it was fitting, given our surroundings. I’m sorry if you did not enjoy it.”

Dean turns towards Castiel, who seems to be suddenly walking quicker has he leads the way towards their lodging. “It was good Cas. Just thinking about it. Don’t really have anything smart to say.” The hunter shoves both of his hands in his pockets, his posture guarded.

They traverse Berlin’s darkened streets in relative silence for five thousand steps from cinema to hotel. Castiel worried he had miscalculated; particularly in the setting he had chosen, perhaps the film was too intrepid a choice. Dean was always hesitant to face his emotions head on - and he had offered an admission that was too bare, too raw, too real for the hunter to process. _About an angel who gave up everything for the human he loved._ As their feet cross the threshold to their the hotel room, Castiel decides it is time for penance. As the door shuts close behind them, he finds the strength to clasp Dean’s wrist gently, to direct his attention, to seek reconciliation. He is willing to say a thousand Hail Mary’s and a hundred Our Father’s, willing to do whatever he needs to to get the fireflies back. Castiel is ready to recite the litany of apologies his heart has already written. He is poised for contrition, beginning with a simple recitation of the name of the man he has wronged.

“Dean…”

But Castiel is interrupted, for Dean abruptly silences him with a kiss that sends a charged current throughout Castiel’s entire form, wrapping his arms so tightly around the angel’s trunk he is left gasping for air. But suddenly, oxygen seems utterly unnecessary. The tension melts from Castiel’s body, his hands raising and unfolding like a flowers in bloom to rest along Dean’s jawline, intoxicated by the rough surface he finds there.

As he shoves off the angel’s coat and jacket, Dean’s lips migrate to rest upon Castiel’s unshaven cheek, trembling tiny kisses as his fingers softly outline his ears, one after the other. They follow the exquisite curve of his neck, scraping their nailbeds across Cas’s heaving throat. His lips treat Castiel like a fragile object, one that is to be handled with the utmost care, as his fingers unfasten the opaque buttons of Castiel’s shirt, one by one. After the white cotton has fallen to the floor, Dean falls to his knees, his palms pressed flush against Castiel’s ribcage.  
  
Dean pushes the angel back ever so slightly, looking up at Castiel as if he were a precious sculpture, craving every chiseled inch of heaven before him. The angel’s hands fall to rest at the back of Dean’s head, combing gently through his hair as the hunter piously presses his cheek to the trail of hair leading its way into the fibre of his pants. The heat of Dean’s breath collects at Castiel’s navel while his hands spiral down the lean muscle of his abdomen, finding themselves grasping at firm, thick thighs. They cautiously move upward, tracing the outline of the hardness quickly swelling from beneath the thin wool. Swelling from the most safeguarded secret of Castiel’s desire - to abandon his body and soul to Dean’s touch - coming to life. Eight years of wondering and wanting those calloused hands to feel him _everywhere_. The arousal of this want and need pushing Castiel to rest his hand atop Dean’s, guiding him to palm his full length through the material. Castiel searches Dean’s eyes as his fingers stroke across, inch by inch. The pupils he sees flooding the green are enough to bring Castiel to his knees.

He wants to worship at this altar of flesh, at a chin and elbows and knees that are somehow tantalizing because they are attached to this man, a man he was chosen to save, a man who has chosen him as worthy. He praises all the forces of the universe that have led to his fingers passing over the planes of Dean’s face, caressing at his cheekbones. The Costa Rican sun has unearthed more freckles, so looking at his features is like stargazing on a clear summer night. Castiel presses his lips, firm and unwavering, into Dean’s. His tongue finds itself in eager exploration of the warmth and wetness of Dean’s mouth as his fingers nimbly begin to work at the his shirt, a little more relieved at each undone button. Soon the top two layers of the hunter’s uniform are cast aside on the carpet, bare flesh awaiting Castiel’s touch.

He places a reverent kiss over the hunter’s heart before taking Dean’s hands into his own, guiding him to rise to his feet. He fumbles to kick off his own shoes, prompting Dean to do the same. They move to the bed - one bed, not two. Castiel’s bones seem willing to break through his skin to be closer to the man whose nose now tenderly grazes his own. He somehow manages to command his body to resist convergence, pulling down the comforter, slipping beneath the thin sheet. His heart feels almost unbearably full when Dean crawls in beside him. The covers provide them each with the courage to reach for the last layers of clothing that separate skin from skin, kicking cotton towards their feet. Castiel moves to hold as much of Dean as his body will allow - crashing into him in a fevered frenzy. Tendons and ligaments and muscles all working as one to wrap himself within Dean’s blanketed embrace.

His fingers pluck against the muscles of Dean’s torso, playing some sweet silent melody while the two kiss, aching for more, unwilling to rush. Both of their hearts are drumming _now_ and _now_ and _now_ , both of their lungs are singing _ah_ and _oh_ as the heft of their bodies press and push and plunge into one another, rutting their way towards their mutual escape. Castiel is in thrall of the heavenly friction of how Dean’s hips grind in increasingly desperate motions against his stomach. A sensation only outdone by the helpless way he clutches the two men’s lengths into his hand, constricting tightly, erratically bucking through his grip. It encourages Castiel to mimic the motion, grasping tightly at Dean’s shoulders as he surrenders to a lust he has never fully known. Dean rumbles through his pleasure as his release meets Castiel’s.

One ecstasy exchanged for another, shedding the soaked sheets to the floor, punctuating their first experience of each other’s oblivion with a series of soft, sweet, slow kisses. A breeze passes through the open window, small goosebumps now visible in the sheen of Dean’s body. Castiel pulls the comforter up, tucking in his beloved, radiating the warmth of his body onto the one that fits perfectly within his arms. One last kiss to say goodnight before giving in to satisfied slumber. Halfway around the world but wholly, fully home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The film Cas and Dean go see, Der Himmel über Berlin (Wings of Desire) really is about invisible angels wandering throughout the city. It is a really beautiful film, and both the aesthetic of the angels (trenchcoat clad) and their desires for the humans they watch over have been cited by Misha as how he thinks about the character of Castiel coming into being.


	3. Scotland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Cas, I like this.” Dean admitted, straightening himself up ever so slightly. “What we have. It’s - it’s aces. But two dudes paired up - that’s a lot of testosterone. We have to try to not kill each other.”
> 
> “Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?” Castiel felt a smile pull at his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience lovelies. We return to find our heroes enjoying the next progression of their relationship a little too much.

Castiel often wakes before Dean. Though, he supposed his definition of “wake” was dubious at best - it was more like he would drift into the recesses of his consciousness as he held the sleeping Dean and return a few hours later feeling somewhat rejuvenated. Before the Winchesters, before these new privileged sleeping arrangements, he would do this in the serenity of nature, far away from the noises of humanity. Somehow the soft snores of Dean were even more soothing. So as he felt himself mentally return to the bed they shared, he didn’t move an inch, for fear of triggering the sleeping hunter's finely tuned senses.

 

“I know you’re awake, Cas,” Dean mumbled, his back pressed tightly against Castiel’s chest, the rise and fall of their breath in sync.

 

Castiel sighed, disappointed. “What gave it away?”

 

“Your thighs.” Dean’s voice held a rasp, and he turned over to face him, encased in long arms. His expression in an early morning scowl, and it managed to take Castiel’s breath away. “When you wake up or whatever it is you call that, they tense up. When you’re big spoon I can feel them move against my ass.”

 

Castiel didn’t answer, but could practically hear the blood in his veins make a sharp turn and head south. Evidently Dean could pick it up too, and he smirked a little as he glanced down between the sheets in the small, heated space that separated them.

 

“Already?”

 

“Dean, you know perfectly well that talking about your ass-”

 

Castiel was silenced with a pair of lips, soft and gentle. And any irritation he felt from being interrupted faded quickly as he felt a contented sigh leave Dean, as calloused hands reach for him in the early morning light.

 

\-----

 

“This bunker is not big enough!” Sam pressed the heels of his palms against his closed eyes, his elbows on either side of his half-eaten breakfast. On the other side of the table sat Mary, stirring her tea and hiding a smile.

 

“It’s only been a month, Sam. Cut your brother some slack.” Her voice held a hint of sympathy for her younger son, but perhaps that was only because as happy as she was for Dean, she somewhat shared in Sam’s lament. While Mary’s puppy dog eyes (it seemed Sam got those genes) might be able to prod Dean to kiss and tell under great duress, he was mum on the details. Not that he needed to divulge much: in the short time since Dean and Castiel had consummated their relationship in the beauty of Berlin, the two had spent a great deal of time, well, getting a damn room. Dean’s room, to be exact, and although the bunker was large and the walls were thick, it didn’t seem to stop the other two Winchesters from accidentally hearing or catching them in the act.

 

Sam’s final straw came this morning, having stumbled in his sleepy state into the bathroom without knocking, only to find the two in the shower. He claimed to have blacked out the moment he entered, but in truth, there were a few images that he couldn’t seem to bleach from his mind: a vision of his brother, blurry behind a plastic shower curtain, his head thrown back and a dark haired figure wrapped around him so tightly they looked like a single unit. The smell of soap and steam filled his senses, and he heard a small phrase, cracked from the lips of Castiel - “...Dean, I’m close…”

 

And then, he well and truly did black out.

 

“Morning, Sammy!” Dean’s hand collided with his brother’s back playfully as he and Cas entered the kitchen. The breakfast Mary had made had long since grown cold, but that didn’t make a dent in his Dean’s cheerful disposition, as he practically skipped across the kitchen in post-coital bliss. Castiel was less obvious but carried a satisfied smirk, pouring himself a cup of coffee and taking a seat.

 

“Dean, I think you owe your brother an apology,” Mary tried, her heart less than into it. Since her return to the land of the living, she had made two quick observations about her grown sons. First of all, that they had a tendency to bicker to such an extent it was difficult to see how they’d gotten along in the first place. And secondly, that it hardly mattered what she said or did; they somehow always managed to make up and move on. She dispensed a few ‘you two better get along or I’ll turn this car around right now’ platitudes now and again, simply to keep up motherly appearances.

 

It doesn’t take long for Dean to understand what she is referring to. “Mom, bathroom door was closed. He should have known better,” he replied through a mouthful of scrambled eggs.

 

“It’s a public bathroom!” Sam responded, finally removing his hands from his eyes, revealing somewhat bloodshot orbs. Castiel leaned forward, studying his face intently.

 

“Are you well, Sam?” He reached out a hand, two fingers raised as if to heal. Sam reeled back from the touch, shaking his head.

 

“I’m fine, Cas. Just, tired.” He raised an eyebrow at the angel before starting to clear his plate. “Besides,” he murmured, “I know where that hand has been…”

 

Dean turned sharply as Sam approached the sink, his arms finding themselves quickly crossing across his chest like a child who has been sent to the corner. “What the hell Sam - I thought you said you were fine with this!”

 

“I am! I’m happy for you both, really.” Sam pleaded, washing his breakfast plate. “I just - I mean, come on, you guys have been going at it like rabbits. We need a break - I need a break.”

 

Both Dean and Castiel found themselves locked in a staring contest, wanting to intervene in their mutual humiliation but stunned silent by Sam’s blunt honesty. Their pained inability to speak is mercifully attended to by Mary, attuned to their embarrassment.

 

“Castiel, why don’t you take Dean somewhere for a little getaway?” she offered, reaching across the table to pat her hand on the angel’s arm. Castiel glanced up at her kind eyes and then at Dean, whose expression had already changed from horror to hope. Cas himself had been quietly searching for an excuse for another excursion, still feeling somewhat apprehensive about extraditing Dean even briefly from his family and the hunt. He mirrored Dean’s growing grin, taking a slow swig of coffee before asking, casually:

 

“Where would you like to go, Dean?”

 

\-----

 

It was somewhat disconcerting and difficult to transport a car. Castiel insisted that he could do it, standing outside of the machine with one hand on the metal, the other holding Dean’s tightly. They landed safely enough, Dean taking only a moment to catch his breath before hurrying into the car to start Baby. He was eager to ensure the trip hadn’t done any damage, even in his own nauseous state. The engine roared to life and Dean let out a quiet cheer, patting the dash tenderly before exiting without shutting it off.

 

“Well shit, that’s really green. Totally different from Costa Rica green, but just - wow!” he exclaimed as he finally allowed himself to take in the surroundings. They were in Scotland, just outside of Edinburgh. Having chosen a fairly remote area to land, they found themselves on a small road in the countryside. Being that the entire country was nearly always in a state of “light drizzle” or heavier, the color of the grass and surrounding foliage was brilliantly, strikingly green. The contrast of the black chrome and the grey sky made the scenery pop as if they were within the pages of a comic book.

 

Castiel allowed himself to watch Dean quietly, indulging in his now full-fledged hobby of  cataloging the various expressions on the hunter’s face as he discovered something new. Shock, at first - raised eyebrows, jaw dropping slightly to part his lips, alert eyes darting as if to take it all in. Then slowly his expression would soften, as with a deep breath - his mouth would purse, and he’d blink slowly and eventually he’d turn again to the angel, as if it were important to him to gauge his reaction appropriately. He was met with a warm smile as he snaked his arms around Castiel and drew him into a kiss.

 

“Where to first?” Cas whispered, trying to fit the words between breaths. Dean wasn’t making conversation easy - but Castiel was hardly complaining.

 

“I need a drink.” Dean murmured against full lips.

 

Castiel snorted, and answered quietly with a newly discovered colloquialism as Dean nibbled at his jaw.

 

“What else is new?”

 

\-----

 

The town was significantly more difficult to drive around in than the countryside. By the time they were fully within Edinburgh limits, Castiel was deeply regretting bringing the car at all.

 

“Perhaps we should have used public transportation,” he tried, glancing again at his phone to read the street signs in tiny green script.

 

“It’s fine Cas, I just wish these GUYS WOULD MOVE OVER FOR CHRIST’S SAKE!” Dean’s voice became increasingly louder as he spoke, motioning with one hand to try to get the two tiny cars ahead of him to get out of the way. They were pulled to the side but not quite enough to let them pass, and Dean cursed again watching two more cars squeeze by going the opposite direction on the too narrow road.

 

“Why the hell didn’t they make streets wide enough for two damn cars drive through?!” Dean lamented, raising another hand in frustration as the cars finally made their move. “And what the hell does that sign say? I thought this country spoke English!?”

 

“It’s in Gaelic. The English is right above it.” Castiel couldn’t help the way he soaked in Dean’s frustration like a sponge. He fought the urge to add to the cursing of the drivers - trying to remain the calmer one in the situation. “We’re almost there - just park anywhere.”

 

“And what the hell is this?” Dean gestured ahead of him, where cars were circling around a small patch of grass. The way the street was planned out they had no choice to get in it, and soon began to circle on the innermost side. Dean’s hands gripped the wheel tight as he turned, mumbling to himself as his eyes darted to the rear and sideview mirrors.

 

“How the hell do I get out of this thing?!” he barked, flipping his turn signal on and off as they made yet another lap. Castiel was at a loss - he’d seen roundabouts before, but had never driven in one. Nor had he ever seen Dean so upset while driving. As aggressive as he could be, he hardly ever succumbed to road rage. Cas started to fantasize about a way to transport the entire car while in motion (dangerous was an understatement) when Dean successfully changed lanes and righted themselves just in time, essentially routing the car to go straight on the road they were before.

 

“Who the hell came up with that?” Dean’s hand went in the air (thankfully, the other stayed on the wheel) as he found a place to park along the (wrong) side of the road. Bringing the car to a stop, they shared a heavy sigh.

 

“The modern roundabout was first built by John McLaren,” Castiel mumbled, answering automatically from the recesses of his encyclopedic mind.

 

Dean scoffed. “Would be a Scot. We don’t have ridiculous things like that back home.”

 

“Actually the first one was built in California,” Castiel clarified and glanced over at Dean, whose face turned slowly from a scowl to something more endearing.

 

“Shut up, Cas.” Dean said, but his voice was soft, and the edges of his mouth were pinched into a small smile. “Let’s get a damn drink.”

 

****

 

The bar was somewhat more inviting than the road, and as they settled onto barstools with their beers they began to feel like they were actually on vacation again. The inside was comprised of brick and iron, with a heavy concrete bar set before several black taps. The prices and types of beers were scribbled in white chalk near the ceiling like whomever wrote them could hardly be bothered to make them legible, touting names like ‘Sink the Bismark’ and ‘Tactical Nuclear Penguin’.

 

“I wouldn’t step foot in a damn hipster bar like this back home. But here, I dunno, it’s cool. It’s - what's the word these Brits use? Posh.” Dean punctuated, bringing the frothy liquid to his lips. He took a long sip, then set the beer down, using his darting tongue to wipe his top lip. It was an innocent move of muscle memory, but it sent a chill down Castiel’s spine as he briefly pictured where that tongue was that morning.

 

“My eyes are up here, Cas,” Dean chuckled as Castiel caught himself, diving somewhat embarrassingly back into his own drink.

 

“I’m perfectly aware of that.”

 

“Ye boy’s need anythin’?” A middle aged woman, reminding Castiel vaguely of Ellen with darker hair, rounded the bar to face them, busy hands wiping a glass with a soft dishtowel. “Hoo aboot some pizza?

 

Her likeness to the old huntress didn’t seem to escape Dean either, whose face softened a little as he turned to her. “Yeah, sure, sounds great - bring us whatever has the most meat on it.”

 

“That’d be the spicy meaty.” She smiled, setting the glass down and putting her hands on her hips. The sassy way she stood certainly didn’t hurt the resemblance. “Americans huh? Ye ‘ere on holiday?”

 

“Yeah.” Dean answered, distracted suddenly by something behind her. “Uh, what’s that?”

 

Castiel followed the direction of his pointed finger towards the other side of the bar, where several empty beer bottles were lined along a thin, backlit shelf. It was meant to show off past beers that had been made by the brewery, but Dean was obviously referring to what sat on the end of the shelf -  a taxidermied squirrel. In a kilt. With a bottle sticking out of its upturned mouth. It was at once terribly disturbing and strangely artistic.

 

“Oh! That’s ‘End of History’ - pure heavy proof beer. Highest in the world! Not for sale, ya kin.” She looked quite proud of the monstrosity, then clasped her hands together. “I’ll get that pizza in for you boys - holler if you’ll be needin’ anything!”

 

Dean stared across the bar for another second before turning back to Castiel, slightly mystified. “Of all the things I thought we’d see here - that was not one of them.”

 

“Are you enjoying Scotland so far?” Castiel hastened - their arrival and subsequent drive hadn’t exactly been as peaceful as their previous two excursions. Perhaps the third time was not the charm.

 

Dean smiled lightly. “It’s been an adventure, that’s for sure. What about you?”

 

“I enjoy watching you discover new things,” Castiel admitted, mimicking Dean’s ease in conversing and allowing himself to push a bit deeper into that territory they usually dance around. “I’ve been everywhere, Dean. None of this is really new for me. But watching you witness the wonders that the world has to offer - it brings me a great deal of joy. Even when it’s frustrating.”

 

A blush rose on his freckled neck that was hard to spot, especially in the bar that grew darker as the elusive sunlight from the windows fell. It was accompanied by a tiny crinkle at the eye, a gesture Castiel was learning meant not only that Dean was flattered, but that his affection swelled with the praise. The hunter didn’t answer, instead leaning forward and darting a single finger along the line of Castiel’s jaw before turning back to his beer. He didn’t need words to be spoken to take Dean’s meaning, and the intimacy between them acted as a shroud as they sat, continuing to converse about nothing at all and enjoying each other’s company.

 

Eventually they left, bellies and hearts full, having bid probably too fond of a farewell to a bartender they barely knew.

 

“God, I miss them,” Dean admitted, holding Castiel’s hand all the tighter as they walked along the cobbled pavement. The sadness in his voice was rare, and Castiel felt equal parts honored to be trusted with his vulnerability, and pained by the memory. Never one to forgive his own transgressions, he still blamed himself at least in part for not being present when the two women met their gruesome end. As much as he knew they were safe and happy in their own heavens, he feverishly wished they were still alive, if only to ease the burden of deaths Dean never seemed to let go.

 

“Me too.”

 

The city was slowing down as the sun set; only a few cars darted past them, and stores had begun to flip their ‘open’ signs to ‘closed’. The ever present mist in the air was turning to a biting chill. They’d at least had the foresight to pack warmer jackets, but save that, everything else about this trip was by the seat of their pants. Including tonight's lodgings.

 

Spotting a small hotel up the road, they made their way towards it, pausing briefly as a light turned on in the uppermost room. They both watched for a moment as a dark haired woman, somehow unaware of the lack of curtains and floor to ceiling windows, fumbled naked in the bathroom in an attempt to turn on the shower. The contrast of the black night with the brightness of the lit room must have made her unaware of the show she was providing for the street outside, until a couple of drunkards paused to catcall from across the street from where Dean and Cas were standing.

 

“Hey!” Dean barked at them as the woman (clearly mortified) realized her mistake and hastened to close the pulled back curtains.

 

“Aww love, don’t be like that!” The taller one pleaded towards the window, his words carrying a distinct slur. He narrowed his eyes at Dean, “Now look what you did! You scared the little birdy away!”

 

“Sorry, looks like you’ll be buttering your own corn tonight, dickwad.” Dean smirked, grabbing Castiel’s hand and starting towards the lobby of the hotel.

 

“I dunna kin - which one of ya’s the lass?” came the bellowed reply, followed by the chuckles of the two smaller men flanking him. “Figure it’s the dark haired one, with the pretty mouth!”

 

Dean stopped in his tracks, his grip loosening and his eyes staring straight ahead. In the short time they’d been showing the small amount of PDA, they’d never encountered any discontent. Perhaps they’d managed it unconsciously - on hunts in less friendly areas they’d more or less stayed professional. But tonight, basking in the simple harmony of their evening walk, they had let their guard down. Castiel tightened his hold, trying to direct them forward again.

 

“Let’s go, Dean.”

 

Dean turned and focused on Cas - his expression hard to read. It was somewhere between furious and pained, but mostly it was brief as Dean let go, charging back towards the three snickering men.

 

“Ah! Ya wee fannyballs - fancy ah doin’?” The shorter of the three called out, followed by another chorus of laughter. Dean huffed his way to the street, hardly breaking stride with determination.

 

For a moment as he watched him move, time slowed down, and Castiel saw from the edge of his vision an old VW bug, single headlight out, careening down the narrow road at such a speed that he was certain he’d be scraping bits of Dean off his trenchcoat within seconds. He felt his heart leap into his throat as he dove forward without thinking to grab Dean’s heavy jacket from behind and yank, sending him stumbling backwards as the vehicle zoomed past them both. And although Castiel was likely sufficiently juiced to repair the bodily harm that could have, would have befell the man, the brief moment he nearly witnessed Dean die _again_ drew his focus to a sudden sharp edge.

 

“Dammit Dean, I could kill those men in an instant! I don’t need you defending my honor!” Castiel felt a hot anger burst forth, punctuated by a small spray of spit.

 

Dean was breathing heavily, looking wide eyed from the street, to the idiots still chuckling drunkenly at the spectacle, and finally back to Cas. He sucked in his bottom lip, looking as if he’d suddenly found a new destination for his anger but miraculously, stayed silent. They stared at each other heatedly before Dean backed down, casting his eyes to the side. The action was considerably deflating, and Castiel hated that he felt like there was just some sort of play for power between the two of them. He hated even more that he’d seemed to have won.

 

“Dean - I…”

 

The hunter slumped without reply, turning on a heel as he moved like a hurricane towards the hotel. Castiel found himself trailing after him, cursing at his own damn outburst, born in a moment of post panic.

 

As it turned out, their rotten luck continued - and then steadily became worse. That hotel was booked solid, as were the next three they visited in the vicinity. Dean for his part was silent other than inquiring with the receptionist at each site. They managed to find a place with a room about thirty kilometers outside of town via the wifi of an exceedingly divey pub. As they reached the Impala to drive there, Dean finally spoke to Castiel for the first time in several hours.

 

“Why don’t we just sleep here?” he offered, his voice softer than Castiel had expected.

 

“In - the car?” Castiel knew the brothers often slept in Baby on long trips, when their bodies or money had run out on them. It was less than comfortable, sure. Nevertheless it was a place Dean consistently found solace, and for that reason alone it sounded appealing.

 

“I just need my four hours - and you don’t sleep.” He rubbed a palm across his eye. “We can crash and make a plan for tomorrow.”

 

“Ok.” Castiel was compliant, if begrudgingly. The point of these trips was to take the stress away from Dean, and now since they’d reached Scotland it seemed as if the entire country was working against them. Still as they climbed inside it was as if they’d entered a bubble - the outside world of Scotland was just wallpaper. Encased in the solid metal frame they were in their element. Dean sighed as he placed his hands on the steering wheel - they weren’t going anywhere, but the action of stroking the leather seemed to calm him.

 

“I’m sorry,” he started, his voice low. “That was stupid.”

 

“Yes it was.” Castiel surprised himself with his reaction. He’d meant to apologize as well, but the whisper of panic danced in recent memory, dictating his reaction. “You frightened me.”

 

Dean shifted at his words, reaching across the bucket seat to find Castiel’s hand in the low light of the street lamp. He gripped it tightly, and remained silent.

 

“You can’t kill every homophobic moron we come across.”

 

“True. But that won’t stop me from trying….” Castiel had yet to turn to look at Dean, but could hear the smile in his reply. He let some of his own tension go - he could hardly blame Dean for acting, well, exactly like Dean. Amongst the reasons he loved him was his unfailing (and sometimes suicidal) loyalty, and although it had been unnecessary, there was a part of him that didn’t entirely mind Dean’s fierce defense.

 

“I’m sorry too - for my outburst.” Castiel finally met Dean’s gaze, looking thoughtful as his thumb moved across the angel’s knuckles gently.

 

“Cas, I like this.” Dean admitted, straightening himself up ever so slightly. “What we have. It’s - it’s aces. But two dudes paired up - that’s a lot of testosterone. We have to try to not kill each other.”

 

“Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?” Castiel felt a smile pull at his lips.

 

“Both.” Dean flinched with a shy grin. “Look, are we going to make out, or what?”

 

“Depends.” Castiel took to the shift in gears swiftly, drawing Dean’s hand to his lips, letting soft kisses dance across the freckled skin.

 

“On?”

 

“Are you going to behave?”

 

Sexy talk being new to Castiel, he wasn’t certain following their minor power play how well that question was going to go over. Luckily it had the desired effect - Dean lowered his head, peeking back up at Cas through long lashes, looking like a wolf who’d just set his sights on dinner. Then he leapt, rolling himself with charged fervor into the backseat and pulling Castiel with him. It was the work of a moment before they were pressed tightly against each other, sinking down against soft leather. Before long the windows were fogged so thickly against the chill of the evening that they were masked from the view of any passersby - not that there was any in the late hour.

 

“Am I behaving, Cas?” Dean whispered against stubble, squeezing where the two were exposed and joined, the rest of their bodies still clothed.

 

“Oh yes…” Castiel’s voice reverberated against the soft indents of Dean’s ear, utterly lost.  


\-----

 

Dean had gotten the hang of driving on the wrong side of the road by the time they reached the ferry. He’d even managed to find a decent radio station, and they listened to it along the beautiful drive from Edinburgh to Kennacraig. Arriving at the port they made the appropriate arrangements, and then carefully drove Baby into the belly of the ferry.

 

“You’re sure about this?” Dean fidgeted as he stood next to the vehicle, poking his fingers along the front window’s seal with a frown. “She’s never been on open water.”

 

Castiel fought the urge to roll his eyes, instead wrapping around to the driver’s side and pressing a kiss against Dean’s cold cheek. This seemed to mollify him for the time being, so they made their way to the upper decks just as the ferry took off from port.

 

Dean’s anxiety quickly faded as he saw the breakfast buffet laid out along the bar of the ship. Reminding Castiel of a child in a candy store, he watched as the hunter excitedly placed each item on his plate until the heap could be heaped no more. He insisted that part of travel was to try every type of food he was exposed to - especially when it was included with the ticket.

 

They found a seat in a far off corner, away from the bustle of the people still swarming the free food. Dean inhaled his meal, pausing only briefly to eye the haggis before stuffing that down as well with a satisfied moan. Castiel was content enjoying the complimentary earl grey and resting his back against the hard plastic seat. He found himself watching the sea churn, the grey blue waves crashing angrily against the ship. Each wave threatened to spill onto the deck but could never quite reach. From his vantage point he watched an old man, wrapped tightly in a dark peacoat, drop his newsboy hat covered head and stagger forward against the wind in an attempt to cross the deck. It seemed as if the further they got from the shore the more the sea and wind raged outside of their enclosed superstructure. The old man hardly cared - he stuck a pipe in his mouth and pressed on slowly along the edge, his rust colored mustache nearly blowing clean off his face.

 

“You sure you don’t want some?” Dean was speaking and as Castiel turned to look at the hunter’s stuffed cheeks and decimated plate, he felt an overwhelming sensation. He turned his head away from Dean just in time, and vomited.

 

“Woah!” Dean threw his plate to the side and cupped Castiel’s heaving shoulders, as he struggled to catch his breath. “You ok?”

 

“I, uh…” But Castiel was at a loss, looking down at the bile covered linoleum, feeling embarrassed and frankly, not any less nauseous than before. “I may do it again….”

 

Dean moved quickly, tossing his handful of napkins over the soiled area and helping Cas to his feet, wrapping an arm around his waist. They carefully made their way to the bathroom, where Castiel spent a shaky fifteen minutes staring into the bottom of a dirty toilet bowl. He teetered on the edge of sickness again, but the warm hands rubbing across his shoulders grounded him a little, and soon he felt reasonably certain he could keep the non existent contents of his stomach down.

 

By the time they’d gotten back, some poor soul had cleaned up the mess Castiel had made, as well as disposed of the remainder of Dean’s breakfast. Both were a kindness as the sight of either might have caused a resurgence of his illness. Dean left his side briefly to get “something to help” and Castiel laid down on the padded chair, as his body suddenly felt inexplicably weak. Strong hands shook him a little as Dean returned.

 

“No, no,” Dean called softly. “Come here, sicky.”

 

Dean sat and then drew Castiel closer until he was lying against the solid warmth of his chest, nestled into the corner of the long padded seat. They watched quietly out the broad windows as the Scottish coastline passed them by, the cragged cliffs and short shoreline succeeding in looking both uninviting and pleasant. There was a slow noise of slurping as Castiel pulled Ginger Ale through a straw and huffed.

 

“This doesn’t make any sense,” he grumbled. “I shouldn’t get ‘sea-sick’. I have requisite strength to fly you and your car to Scotland. Mere open water shouldn’t have this sort of effect on my vessel.”

 

“You ever been on a boat, Cas?” Dean nosed his hair, taking a deep breath. His voice was gentle and next to his ear.

 

Well, now that he mentioned it….

 

“Not as such.”

 

“And we know you feel pain when something shanks you, and you can feel, uh, other things…” Dean wiggled his shoulders a little, soliciting a snort out of Castiel. “Angel logic, man. I don’t know. It’s just a little stomach-ache. We’ll be there soon.”

 

“Still, this trip is hardly going the way I had imagined…”

 

There was a silence where Dean raised his hand and ran it soothingly through Castiel’s hair. It was wonderful and serene, and he could feel his stomach begin to settle.

 

“I’ll take care of you, don’t worry.”

 

\-----

 

The tiny island of Islay was little more than the multitude of distilleries that sat upon it. As such, it was a very short drive from Port Ellen to Ardbeg, the first stop on their tour. Thankfully Castiel’s stomach has returned to its normal now that they were again on solid land. But there was a lingering warmth that spread across the angel’s bones from being doted on by Dean, and as he watched him quietly navigate the countryside he couldn’t help the smile that pulled at his lips.

 

“It’s a good thing you’re an angel Cas - because I plan on getting pretty tanked.” Dean winked, glancing over at him. Their eyes met briefly, enough for him to find confusion in the expression on Castiel’s face.

 

“What?”

 

The angel blinked - he hadn’t meant to be looking at Dean so adoringly, but he must have been. He straightened himself up and turned his head, looking at the rolling green meadows along the road.

 

“I’m just - thank you, Dean. For helping me when I was ill.” He clarified quickly, the words hurried in a single breath.

 

Dean straightened himself up too, which appeared to be their non-verbal way to communicate the seriousness of their own words. “I can’t, uh, heal you. Like you can do to me. But I can bring you a damn ginger ale, at least.”

 

Castiel had never realized before how it must feel for Dean, not being able to ever really assist with his injuries. For the most part Cas has always been able to repair whatever physical malady that befell the hunter, and he’d sourced that as a sense of pride and his own way of showing the affection he’d always felt. But for Dean, who fancied himself the guy who could fix everything from the car they were driving in to the next apocalypse, it must be frustrating to never really be able to help heal Castiel.

 

Treading lightly over the moment, Castiel let out a sigh. “It was nice. I felt very - loved.”

 

The word hung heavy in the air like a question, or a promise, or perhaps a little of both. He’d phrased it unintentionally, and as the word left his lips he’d realized that he may have taken a step too far. But what exactly is the distance considered too far, between them? What was the power in this single word, really, that hadn’t been spoken a million times in each other’s actions? In their sacrifice, in their devotion, in the clasping of their hands or the way their bodies seared against the other in a kiss so heated, Castiel could swear those lips were heaven and hell at once?

 

Still, he hated to put Dean into a position where he felt uncomfortable, and discussing love was absolutely that. He started to say something about the Highland cows they were passing on the right when Dean answered.

 

“You are.”

 

Castiel let himself, for a moment, close his eyes. A current as restless as the waves they had crossed together began to surge through his chest, threatening to overtake him. But this time, the feeling did not leave him empty-stomached and weary, but rather, completely, blissfully full. When he opened his eyes once more, they were pulling into the parking lot of the distillery, gravel twisting under tires. The words he wanted to respond with lay raw on the edge of his tongue but as he looked over at Dean, he was shocked to be met with a smile. The hunter looked more comfortable than he’d ever seen him, except, perhaps, in those perfect moments that followed ecstasy, moments where decades of tension written in muscles and bones seemed to come undone. There was a crinkle to his green eyes, and then he was gone, exiting the car, the moment slipping away before Castiel could grasp it. But somehow that was alright - there would be another moment. For now he basked in the glow of knowing that Dean Winchester, the righteous man, the man for whom he’d sacrificed everything he’d ever known, quite simply _loved him_.

 

\-----

 

The last of their bad luck came to a head as they discovered not only that Ardbeg was closed, but the next two distilleries were as well. As they pulled up to Laphroaig it seemed as desolate as the others, and Dean threw his hands in the air.

 

“What gives?” he lamented, parking his car next to the sign that said “Visitor’s Entrance”. They got out and took a short look around, trying the door (it was locked) and another building as well (not locked, but abandoned). Their poking around didn’t escape notice though, and before long an older, grizzled man in a pair of overalls met them near the front.

 

“Can I help ye?” he asked, a bit jovial and friendly.

 

“We came here to do some distillery tours, but they’re all closed!” Dean couldn’t help the way his voice pouted a little.

 

“Well, yeah.” The man answered, scratching the underside of his grey stubbled chin. “It’s a bank holiday. Everythin’s closed up tight.”

 

Castiel and Dean’s eyes met and they collectively sighed.

 

“I suppose this explains our inability to locate lodgings last night.” Castiel shrugged, angry that he’d not bothered to check the dates before they left. He made his mind up resolutely that they would never again travel so haphazardly.

 

“Yeah.” Dean shrugged. “Ok well, thanks man. Appreciate it.” A half-grin found itself unconsciously plastered across Dean’s face, a lifetime of depending on and appreciating the kindness of locals seemingly embedded in his DNA.

 

The small gesture did not go without notice.“Well now, you lads came all this way. How’s about I get you a dram on the house?” The gentleman smiled a toothy grin, making his way over to the front entrance of the visitor’s centre and fiddling for a set of keys. Dean’s expression was that of a giddy gratitude as they followed him inside.

 

The man, introducing himself as Chet, was incredibly generous, and they sat for a long time discussing the ins and outs of making Scotch. It was better than the tour itself, as picking through the thirty-five years of dedication the man had given to the craft was incredibly educational. Besides, it was so refreshing to see Dean engage in conversation at length with a stranger that had nothing to do with the harrowing nature of their jobs. The sun was setting by the time they were through - Chet poured them a last dram of 18 year old, told them to keep the glasses, and walked them out with a hearty laugh and good wishes.

 

They wandered over to the rocky shoreline, finding a soft patch of grass to sit on and watch the sun set behind the waves. They huddled close as a biting chill set in, and Castiel could feel Dean’s breath hot against the back of his neck. He took another sip from his glass, let the peaty liquid swirl around his tongue, then with a swallow decided this was a good time to clarify something important.

 

“I hope it doesn’t make you uncomfortable, Dean,” he started, wishing he’d first turned to look at him as he spoke. “I just wanted to say-”

 

“You don’t make me uncomfortable,” Dean whispered against his ear, the subtle implications of the sentiment sending a shiver up the angel’s spine.

 

Castiel shifted so he could look Dean in the eye. He found a tenderness there that made it impossible to rephrase or gingerly state the words that threatened to scream out of him.

 

“Angels are created with an intrinsic sense of agape - that our love for our father and his creation is the highest form of love we can experience. I have spent almost the whole of my existence believing that, blindly, because I knew nothing else. Then I met you,” he continued, and Dean looked at him with intent, his green eyes shining a reflection of the last of the dying sunshine. “And everything I had known was in disarray. I felt for you something stronger than my sense of allegiance to my brethren, to my father. It was all consuming and so pure. I love you, Dean. More than I have ever loved anything. More than I thought I was capable of. And I understand now that this reciprocal, focused, human love I feel is not the lesser. It’s everything.”

 

His confession left him a little breathless. He watched as Dean drew a breath inward, the tiny corner of his eyes sparkling with emotion.

 

“I love you too, Cas.”

 

Dean leaned forward to catch the angel’s lips in a soft, sweet tasting kiss. Suddenly the hectic nature of their travels, not unlike the hectic nature of their lives, faded gently away, because it had lead them to these few minutes of perfection. A breeze blew cold and sharp and they drew ever closer, willing this moment to last as long as possible.

 


	4. Family Dinners and So Forth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is the perfect family dinner Dean had imagined in so many motel rooms as he managed to make macaroni and cheese for him and Sam with nothing more than a microwave. He finds himself squeezing Cas’s hand not only out of happiness, but to be sure that this is all real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our lovebirds are going to spend a bit of time in Lebanon, if that's alright by you. It is? Fantastic. This is the first part of two where our OTP enjoy all that a staycation has to offer.

Dean would be the first to admit that being with an angel certainly came with its fair share of perks. Date nights could be had halfway around the world. When he was sure Sam was gossiping about him two rooms over, Castiel could eavesdrop to confirm his suspicions. Sleep was now a state that was rarely lonely, as Dean had invited Castiel to pop into his dreams whenever he pleased. Things were good, and good was new for Dean. And really, he loved all things angelic about Cas. His strength, abilities -  all definite pluses. So Dean definitely felt greedy when that lingering wish emerged once more, that Cas could have held onto some of those banal human abilities.

 

Like now, as he stirred his homemade tomato sauce, stuff he knew was great. Dean wanted nothing more than to lift the wooden spoon to Castiel’s lips under the guise of advice, to receive earnest praise for his culinary capacity. He knew spaghetti and meatballs weren’t anything fancy, but that wasn’t the point for Dean. His family was all gathered together. Sharing stories, drinking wine, laughing at a joke that Castiel didn’t know he made. And Dean, Dean was providing for them, serving up comfort food, stuff that would make Sammy smile and give his mom the good kinds of tears knowing that somehow Dean had managed to grow up so well. But food that tasted like love to them was nothing more than molecules to Castiel.

 

Dean pushed down that yearning just as he pulls the garlic bread out of the broiler. Surveying the contents of the meal, he feels a deep sense of satisfaction, distinctly different from what he felt after a successful hunt. He nearly extends his oven mitt to his back to congratulate himself on a job well done when he feels a gentle tug at his apron strings. He turns to meet the source, a firm kiss awaiting him.

 

“What was that for, Cas? I mean, I’m not complaining or anything but … random.” Dean’s eyes cast a curious glance towards his family hovering nearby. For as much acting as both had done in their capacity as hunters, his family members do the least-convincing rendition of “we weren’t spying and swooning at your sweetness.”

 

A long slender finger pushes into Dean’s chest, passing over the letters on the kitchen smock. _Kiss the cook,_  Castiel traces as he begins to speak. “Your garment, it informed me it was customary to bestow a signifier of affection to the chef. It was a very easy order to follow. Everything looks and smells great Dean.” Castiel punctuates the compliment with another chaste kiss.

 

Dean turns from Castiel’s gaze towards the sauce, his cheeks suddenly sharing the colour of his labour of love.

 

The meal is met with the highest accolades by all. Sam shovels in two whole plates, making the pledge to have salads for dinner for the rest of the week. Mary tries to guess every spice Dean added to his marinara, impressing him with her palette. Castiel commends Dean on the pasta being perfectly al dente, able to appreciate texture if not taste. It is the perfect family dinner Dean had imagined in so many motel rooms as he managed to make macaroni and cheese for him and Sam with nothing more than a microwave. He finds himself squeezing Cas’s hand not only out of happiness, but to be sure that this is all real.

 

Just before the plates are cleared from the table, Mary gets a glimpse of the childhood she missed when Sam and Dean have an impromptu “how many meatballs can you fit in your mouth at once” contest. Dean wins. Castiel isn’t surprised. Dean dictates the terms of his victory, tasking Sam with dish duty, waving the younger Winchester away. Sam, who’d been planning to clean up anyhow, half-heartedly protests his sentencing, lamenting that his older brother was both a “jerk” and a “sore winner.” As the two once again manage to argue over nothing, Mary desperately looks for an ally in Castiel.

 

“Has it always been this bad?” she whispers covertly in the angel’s ear as Sam tosses a piece of garlic bread at his brother’s head. Castiel turns towards her as he nods. He has long learned this to be the preferred way the brothers showed affection towards one another, confusing as it may be.

 

“You can whine all you want Sammy. You lost. So take that bitchface back to the kitchen and get to scrubbing.” The quip startles Mary, for she realizes how quickly she has grown accustomed to life with her sons. In the beginning, she would wince whenever Dean would use any form of “bitch” to describe Sam’s exaggerated exasperation. The term made her skin crawl. Having lived with her sons a few months now, she no longer condemned it: she too had grown tired of Sam’s reliance on the expression. It was strange how settled she had become within this life.

 

Mary is thankful when Castiel interrupts her uncanny thought, attempting to reassure her. “They taunt and tease when things are well. Hugs are usually reserved for when one of them is about to martyr themselves.” Mary chuckles at Castiel’s suggestion, supposing the angel is attempting humour, simply missing the mark in tone. Castiel doesn’t have the heart to tell her he is wholly serious.

 

During their brief conversation regarding the siblings’ rivalry, the boys had managed to end up wrestling on the floor. Mary sighed at the re-emergence of their adolescence, demanding Dean let his brother out of the headlock Sam had found himself trapped within. To end the pointless standoff, she extends a hand towards her youngest child and escorts Sam towards the kitchen, offering to help dry the dishes if he washed.

 

The sink is filled with warm sudsy water before Mary speaks. “So ... you two … have always bickered like that?” Sam shoots her an overly sweet grin, trying to distract her with cuteness as he hands her a washed wine glass. For the first time in his life, Sam meets his match: it turns out that Mary has built up an immunity to the Winchester charm. “You can put that smile away, Sammy. I’m serious. With the way you two are at each other’s throats - I keep half-expecting to come home from grocery shopping some day and find one of you sprawled out in a puddle of blood on the floor.” Sam’s eyes narrow and his jaw tightens at the proposed crime scene, as if to say that that sort of sight was not without precedent in the brothers’ lives. Mary picks up on the strained expression, a chill travelling down her spine as she instantly regrets her choice of imagery.

 

“What I mean to say is - I know you boys have been through so much together. Things I would rather you have been spared from. It’s just - I came from a household where happiness was considered a distraction. Love and laughter were surefire ways to get you dead, according to my dad. I wanted so badly to protect you two from that life. I wanted my boys to know how to be happy.”

 

“Mom…” Sam mutters as he extends a wet hand to his mother’s shoulder, drawing her body into his own. Her words come out softly against his chest, her voice slightly strained.

 

“You know - if John wasn’t already dead I could kill him now for the mess he’s made for you two. I suppose it’s wrong of me to blame him - especially when I know all the good you two have done. And I know neither of you will never give up hunting. I’ve come to terms that this is our life. It’s just - do you think - could either of you ever manage to be happy?”

 

The question wounds Sam worse than blades or bullets. He presses a gentle kiss to the top of his mom’s head before he answers softly. “What we have now may not seem like much Mom, but this - this is happy for Dean and me. We’re healthy, we’re hunting, no evils we don’t know how to handle on the horizon. And Dean - this is the best he’s ever been. There might not be any white picket fences or anything, but he’s letting himself have this. He is allowing himself to be loved.”

 

Mary’s nerves fade, a soft smile finding itself across her face. “You know, you’re very wise Sammy,” she adds, patting him lightly on the back before pulling back to wink at him. “I’m pretty certain you get that from my side of the family.” They quickly settle into a silent rhythm, plates and pots passing between the two generations. As if this had always been their routine. A happy family, strange as they may be.

 

\-----

 

Castiel too moves towards the kitchen, awkwardly carrying four bottles of beer back from the fridge, handing one to a smiling Dean when he returns to the table. The angel’s thumb gently rows back and forth over the other man’s knuckles. Maybe it’s the generous glasses of pinot he had alongside dinner, maybe it’s the warm laughter of his loved ones that fills the concrete basement they had managed to cobble into a home, but there is a quiet contentment in Dean’s eyes Castiel is unsure if he has ever seen before.

 

“You look happy,” Castiel exhales warmly against Dean’s ear as he presses a quick kiss to his cheek. Dean lets out an unstrained breath at the contact.

 

“You know what Cas? I am. Happier than I’ve ever been.” The hunter grips the hand Castiel has wrapped around the glass bottle. “And you, you’re a big part of that.” Castiel wants to return the sentiment, wants to reward Dean’s willingness to so nakedly divulge his feelings. He parts his lips to speak when an arm is snaked over his shoulder to grab a cold one, the long limb clearly belonging to the younger Winchester.

 

“Hey lovebirds! Up for a movie?” Sam’s eyes dart over towards Mary, headed back towards the dining table with plates, forks and her much beloved apple pie. “Mom’s choice.”

 

Dean slices into the dessert, which his mother had hidden from him and covertly reheated while she was drying dishes. Because it was a surprise, she insisted - not because she didn’t trust Dean to keep his hands off of it before dinner. He definitely hadn’t earned that reputation with her. “Deal,” he responds to his brother, who pushes away the sweet perfection, making a pained expression as he rubs his overstuffed stomach.

 

Mary’s eyes pass over the collection of movies the boys have amassed since moving into the bunker. She could make an educated guess on which of the classics belonged to each of her sons - _The Rules of the Game_ screamed Sammy; _Cool Hand Luke_ was all Dean. The more recent (well, released in the past thirty years) flicks were a bit harder to discern. Her fingers finally land on her choice, carrying the case back towards the table where Sammy was fidgeting to plug in his laptop speakers.

 

As Dean arranges the four chairs around the small screen, he finds himself thinking out loud. “You know, now that there’s four of us living here, we really could use a couch. And a TV.” _Four of us. No longer just me and you against the world._ Dean casts a glance at Sam, his one and only partner in crime for so long, who meets his eye with an upturned brow of surprise at Dean’s inadvertent nesting. Embarrassed _,_ Dean sinks into a chair and takes a drink from the bottle as if he was dying of thirst.

 

There are few moments in Sam’s life where he can recall not taking advantage of an opportunity to poke fun at his brother. The overcompensating masculinity. The love of Dr. Sexy (which given Dean’s current infatuation with a certain dreamy dark-haired man made a whole new sort of sense). The terrible, terrible puns. But now, as he turns towards his brother with that dorky grin plastered across his face, he bites his tongue. Dean’s unabashed happiness was no laughing matter. “A couch and a TV would probably make sense. But I am still going to veto a foosball table. As legacies, we have to hold onto some semblance of the Men of Letters’ respectability.”

 

“Foosball is a thinking man’s game, Sammy!” Dean is ready to launch into a diatribe against his brother’s pretensions when a muss of dark hair finds itself pressing against his shoulder. It has its intended effect, for Dean no longer feels the pull towards sarcastic evasion. Instead, he sneaks a quick kiss to Cas’s forehead before, quite literally, filling his piehole. As the credits roll on Mary’s choice, ( _They Live_ , which somehow manages to send Dean’s spirits soaring even higher) the need for a conventional living room seems to evaporate. Huddled together to watch Roddy Piper chew bubblegum and kick ass, with his angel in his arms, basking in the laughter of his loved ones, Dean lets the blessed feeling wash over him. _This isn’t so bad. Not bad at all._

 

\-----

 

“Why so many clothes?” Dean whines as he struggles to shed the various layers of fabric in the darkness of the bedroom. Castiel, for his part, has made considerably greater progress casting away the components of his wardrobe. Dean Winchester, slayer of vampires and werewolves and demons, (oh my!) seemed to be utterly defenseless against his flannel button down, the half-unbuttoned garment somehow strangling him as he struggled to break free. Hands built to help humanity take mercy on the poor man as Castiel guides Dean out of the rest of his clothing.

 

“You’rethebest Cas, you know that? The cat’s pajamas. The bee’s knees. HA! Get it? Because you like beeeees.” Dean hiccups the terms of endearment Castiel’s way, the usually stoic angel’s mouth finding it impossible not to smile at Dean’s various declarations of his love. Hand in hand they make their way towards the bed, with Dean quickly collapsing and Castiel settling down next to him. Through lazy eyes the hunter continues with his affirmations while the angel combs his fingers through his hair. “You’re the top banana,” Dean attempts to whisper seductively, the entendre instead coming out like a hushed shout.

 

Castiel waits until he is sure Dean is solidly asleep before he presses two fingers to the other man’s temple. He may not be able to protect Dean against all the uncertainties of their world, but he relished in the fact that he could prevent Dean the hell of a hangover. Serenaded by the soft snores passing through Dean’s nostrils, Castiel delivers a gentle kiss to his hairline as he returns Dean’s sentiments, a simple _I love you too_ at the forefront of his mind as he waits for morning to come.

  


\-----

 

Morning arrived, let himself in, had a cup of coffee and read the paper before Dean stirred. But Castiel didn’t mind - he felt wholly content to stay at Dean’s side until he woke naturally, believing he was due quite a few days of sleeping in to make up for lost time. Still, he could barely repress the shudder that threatened to overtake him when those magnificent green eyes dreamily began to take in the day. A grin crept lazily across Dean’s face, freckles moving in slow motion. Try as he might to wake, his body seemed to be insistent he stay within the warmth of his bed. Dean does battle with his heavy lids, desperately trying to convince himself it’s time to get up.

 

Castiel is sympathetic to the struggle, insisting the hunter go back to sleep, if only for a little while longer. After a series of very persuasive kisses, Dean considers himself a man convinced. As his heartbeat again slows, Castiel forces himself from the magnetic pull Dean’s body seems to have over his, dressing himself in his most casual shirt and slacks.

 

As he makes his way through the bunker, he is shocked that the other Winchesters too seem to be slow to rise. That is, until, he makes his way to the library, an envelope resting against one of the reading lamps. It is adorned with his and Dean’s names in the distinct, beautiful script he had quickly come to know as Mary’s. With careful precision, Castiel opens it, as if it was poised to be the future occupant of a museum exhibition, a precious, invaluable artifact.

 

_My dearest Dean and Cas,_

 

_By the time you read this, Sammy and I will be long gone. We’re taking a short monster-free road trip (cross your fingers) and we should be back Monday night. You two have been making some great memories all around the world, but we figured you’d want to make a few special ones close to home. Have a wonderful weekend!_

 

_Love to you both,_

_Mom_

 

_P.S. Dean, all I’ve ever wanted for you is to be happy. Grab onto this happiness with both hands and don’t let go - I promise it’s worth it._

 

For eons Castiel thought he understood the meaning of family. But from the moment he laid a hand on Dean, that definition was lost. Family became a synonym for pain; he spent years disappointing his family, reminded of that disappointment at fairly regular intervals. Of looking into his brothers and sisters’ eyes and finding nothing but confusion, hurt, anger. Of hearing of the crack in his chassis. Of being called everything from a lovesick puppy to a traitor akin to Lucifer. Years of trying to mediate between what he had been told was family from the first moments of his existence to the family he had formed on his own here on earth. As Castiel reads Mary’s words, simple though they may be, he finds that nagging contradiction evaporate. _Family is not where you come from. It is who you love and who loves you back._ He might be an angel, but without a doubt, Castiel was also something far more powerful: he was a Winchester.

 

His heart is still entirely filled to the brim when his feet hit the pavement of a parking lot in Los Angeles. He approaches the non-descript strip plaza with minor trepidation, a bit worried that he may have zapped himself to the wrong address. But sure enough, as he makes his way towards the storefront, the signs assure him he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be: _THE BEST DONUT SHOP IN L.A._ As the bell dings overhead, Castiel half-considers turning around: not to look elsewhere, but because Primo’s is precisely the sort of place Dean would get giddy about. He commits to memory yet another place they can travel to together in the future as he makes his purchase. A few minutes later, a dozen assorted confectionary treats secure in a cotton candy pink box, Castiel whisks himself back to Lebanon.

 

It turns out that in his absence, Dean mustered up the fortitude to peel himself away from bed. He has just finished brewing an exceptionally strong batch of coffee when Castiel pops back in, both caught in a moment of mutual surprise.

 

“You’re awake,” Castiel states plainly to the man in the grey robe and bunny slippers.

 

“It’s good to get out of bed by noon,” Dean answers back, sipping away at his own cup of coffee as he pours one for Castiel. As he turns to hand off the mug, his fingers purposely lag behind while his eyes dart towards Mary’s letter. “You see this?”

 

Castiel nods, suddenly not quite sure to say about the note. “It was a very thoughtful gesture. Unnecessary, of course, but sweet nonetheless.”

 

“That’s not the only sweet thing going on here.” Dean licks his lips as he looks Castiel’s way, green locking onto blue. Castiel looks equal parts confused and flattered by the comment. Until he remembers the cardboard container he has placed on the nearby counter, which, of course, must have been what Dean was referring to.

 

“Yes, I purchased donuts this morning. Although you ruined it. I was going to bring them to you in bed. I read in a magazine that breakfast in bed was a much appreciated romantic gesture.”

 

“Cas I wasn’t talking about - you know what, forget that. And I’m just gonna blow right past you telling me I messed it up and ask you something in return. Have I told you lately how much ass you kick? Because let me tell you, donuts sound awesome right now.”

 

Castiel continues to be perplexed by Dean’s kindness, his head tilting and eyebrows tightening in unison. “You haven’t commented on my hand-to-hand combat skills in quite some time.” The angel closes the distance between himself and Dean, placing a hand on the other man’s shoulder, striving to capture the hunter’s full attention as he expresses his gratitude. “So thank you for the compliment Dean.”

 

“No Cas - I was saying…” Again Dean feels the familiar urge to disregard his attempt at sentiment, to mask his meaning behind a well-executed joke at Castiel’s expense. But as he looks at the breathtaking sincerity shaping each and every of his angel’s features, another compulsion takes over. “Cas - when I said you kick ass, I meant it like, you’re great. You’re thoughtful and kind and even though you kind of fumble through all this, you are pretty much..” Dean takes a long breath in to build up his resolve to utter the next word, his heart threatening to break through bone with how hard it is suddenly beating. “Pretty much the best boyfriend a guy could ask for.”

 

Gratitude transforms into unabashed joy as Castiel pulls Dean in for a tight embrace, without a care in the world that the two each splash half of the contents of their coffee cups on the kitchen floor in the process. “Dean,” the angel whispers gently, his lips ever so slightly grazing the bottom of Dean’s earlobe as he speaks.

 

“Yeah Cas?”

 

“Do you think - can we go have breakfast in bed?”

 

“Of course. I’ll even act surprised if you want.”

 

“That would be excellent.”

 

With a kiss to depart, Dean is a man on a mission, ready to get back in bed and be woken up. But not before he shares some good news with his partner. “It’s the strangest thing Cas - I thought I was doomed for a horrible hangover this morning - mixing wine and beer and whiskey doesn’t sit as well as it once did. But I feel … I feel great. Just got lucky, I guess,” he smirks as his feet begin to shuffle down the hallway.

 

 _We both did_ , Castiel thinks silently to himself as he gathers up all he needs to share a perfect morning with _his boyfriend_.

  


\-----

 

Twelve gargantuan bites of twelve donuts later, Dean is convinced he has actually died and gone to heaven.  And Castiel watches, nearly able to taste each mouthful as he lives vicariously through Dean’s pleasure.

 

“Dear God. Cas … I mean …” Dean quickly searches for another way to express his happiness without taking Chuck’s name in vein. “Where in the hell in Lebanon did you find these?” he asks, the crumbs of a chocolate cake donut falling from his lips, much to his regret.

 

“I may have … cheated a bit. I searched “Best Donuts” on the internet and chose the shop I thought would be most to your liking. I feel as if my instincts were at least somewhat accurate?”

  
Dean isn’t sure if it’s the orgy of sweet treats making sweet love to his stomach or the fact that a being older than recorded time is Googling on his behalf, but he wants to press pause on this moment, hold it close and never let go. He settles instead on (momentarily) putting his gift to the side, pulling the gift-giver down into the bed to give thanks the best way Dean knows how.


	5. All That Lebanon, Kansas Has to Offer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean concocts a multitude of schemes to spoil Castiel during their days of sweet seclusion in Lebanon. Sure, there's a fair share of sexual deeds on that list. But no one was more surprised than Dean himself by the sheer number of things he had planned that would require them to both be fully clothed. Things that dangerously bordered on what one might consider ... romantic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry so tardy! Real life was a jerk and interfered with writing. Get lost, real life!
> 
> As always, all your kind words warm the COCKLES of our hearts!

When Dean pulls his head up from beneath the sheets, his expression is absolutely sinful. Freckles obscured on cheeks flushed red, normally plump lips swollen past the point of obscenity. He kisses his way up Castiel’s still heaving abdomen before finally resting his head on top of the angel’s chest.

 

Castiel does not form words until he has once again regained control of his breath, until his heartbeat steadies to its normal pace, until he is almost out of the afterglow. His fingers massage appreciatively against the crown of Dean’s head as he carefully crafts his first attempt at language in the wake of his wordless bliss.

 

“Is it customary to provide sexual pleasure to the purveyor of breakfast in bed?” he asks at a tone barely above a whisper. The innocence with which he asks the downright explicit question immediately draws a laugh from Dean’s lungs, expelled into the flesh of his partner beneath.

 

“For most people, probably not. With me, almost definitely,” Dean snickers as his eyes turn upward to take in the angel’s response. A slow smirk begins to find itself settled on Castiel’s face.

 

“I will definitely remember that. For future reference.”

 

\-----

 

The impromptu morning blowjob was just the first of a multitude of schemes Dean was concocting to spoil Castiel during their days of sweet seclusion in Lebanon. Sure, there was a fair share of sexual deeds on that list. But no one was more surprised than Dean himself by the sheer number of things he had planned that would require them to both be fully clothed. Things that dangerously bordered on what one might consider romantic.

 

As far as relationships went, Cas was pretty low-maintenance. Diner dinners tasted the same as Michelin ranked restaurants. A successful date was one they both returned from without any mortal wounds. Still, Dean found himself increasingly distracted by daydreams of ways he could bring a smile to the face of a certain blue-eyed rebel. It was all new and terrifying and revealing to Dean parts of his heart he didn’t know existed, parts that dared to love and to be loved.

 

Dean was hungry for the way Cas’s eyes would light up when the hunter would show him something new. He found he was on a constant quest to make that perfect nose scrunch up when he managed to bridge that great English-Enochian joke divide. There suddenly was no sound more beautiful than the relaxed breath Cas would exhale as he lifted his cup of mint tea to his lips before bed. No smell as intoxicating as the scent of Cas’s skin. As he fantasized about all the ways he could pamper the angel, fulfilling needs Cas didn’t even know he had, it suddenly hit Dean all at once.

 

He was a goner.

 

\------

 

 _Remember, this is about him,_ Dean silently reminds himself as his fingers pass over the sleeves of _Classic Rock, J - L_. He already has three albums tucked under his arm, records he is eagerly anticipating sharing with Cas, ones that reach beyond the Impala’s limited cassette collection. He turns towards the angel and his fears are immediately relieved. Cas had been somewhat reluctant to embrace Dean’s direction to “grab whatever your little heart desires.” But he had managed to confront and overcome that hesitancy rather quickly, accumulating a cartoonishly high stack of used books over the past hour within the used records and books shop.

 

Sure, Metatron had bestowed on him the gift of centuries of books and films and music, but that wasn’t the same as experiencing it firsthand. It had, however, whet his appetite for the cultural products of humanity. And so as he placed a dogeared copy of _Love in the Time of Cholera_ atop his heap, Castiel felt boundlessly excited for the literary adventures which awaited him.

 

“You know Cas, a library isn’t made in a day,” Dean teases, dramatically peaking his eyes out from behind Castiel’s tower. He pokes fun but if he was being honest with himself, the enthusiasm with which Castiel had plucked books from the shelves made Dean feel nothing less than extraordinary.

 

Except, of course, Castiel doesn’t know that, and is unsure if Dean is being serious or sarcastic. “I can return some,” he offers, scanning the titles of the spines as if he was being asked to give up some of his beloved friends.

 

Dean immediately reaches a hand out to stop Castiel’s deliberations. “Don’t you dare,” he responds, refusing to let Castiel feel ashamed of his joy. “Just know - this doesn’t have to be a one time deal. Maybe it could become one of our things. A little tradition. Saturday mornings with breakfast in bed followed by book and record shopping.”

 

Cas thinks about repeating today’s events, about the ritual being extended into the foreseeable future. He imagines the two of them ten years down the way. The extra little laugh lines that would be carved into Dean’s face, the gray finding its way amongst sandy blonde. And though he might not be a creature of endless imagination, he is sure that no one could picture a better or happier life.

 

And so before he lifts his haul into his arms, he pulls Dean tightly into his own body, lips nuzzling themselves against that intoxicating peach fuzz that adorns the other man’s face. “I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this” he confesses into the soft flannel of the man’s shoulder.

 

“You saved me,” Dean whispers as he rubs circles into the crook of Cas’s neck.

 

“That was years ago,” Castiel blurts out, unwilling to accept the other man’ rationale for why he has earned his love.

 

“No, Cas. _For years_. From myself.” The statement is simultaneously sad and sacred.

 

Neither man dares to speak again until they wish for the cashier to have a good day.

 

\-----

 

As they are packing Baby to the brim filled with all of Castiel’s books (he added four more to the pile before making it to the register), it hits Dean. It is one of those perfect late summer days, warm but not sweltering, just enough of a bite in the air as the wind blows by. And Dean is learning to act on the opportunities life presents.

 

“Onto phase two!” he announces, as if the solemn moment in the store wasn’t still in the rearview mirror.

 

“What is phase two?” Castiel inquires, eyebrows moving in unison towards the bridge of his nose as the passenger door comes to a close beside him.

 

The Impala’s engine rumbles alive. “That’s classified information,” Dean remarks back matter of factly, over a decade of impersonating federal agents aiding his quickly adopted persona. Castiel can do nothing but shake his head and settle in, happy to go wherever the road and his driver take him.

 

From the exterior, it appears to be just a normal pub. Nothing upscale but not the sort of dive that promised a night of the very best mistakes Lebanon had to offer. The interior does nothing to alter this impression - nice enough but not the sort of place top secret plans revolve around. Dean shoots a grin and a glance towards the bartender before pointing towards the back, moving only when he gets her nod of approval.

 

“Ready Cas? Let’s go!” Dean says as he grabs the angel’s hand, interlocking their fingers together as he pulls him towards the pub’s rear. Castiel’s shoes squeak as he shuffles them quickly across the hardwood, trying to keep pace with his companion.

 

“Dean I am perfectly capable of walking without your assistance. There are only so many ways to proceed from here.” The words would sound calloused if they came from anyone other than Castiel, but he manages to straddle that beautiful line between sincere and oblivious that fills Dean with warmth rather than angst.

 

Not that he will let Castiel’s confused mutterings go without some gentle ribbing. Dean might be a righteous man, but he was no angel, after all.

 

“Are you telling me you want to stop holding hands?” he asks just as he puts on his very best big puppy dog eyes.

 

Castiel exhales a breath that faintly contains what very well could be considered a near laugh. “Not in the slightest.”

 

\-----

 

Castiel has seen some fairly impressive sights in his time. He watched the flora flourish within the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. His brethren had a hand in shaping what would become Victoria Falls. And of course, he spent entire lifetimes witnessing the the vast emptiness of the Grand Canyon grow. And yet, when Dean guides him to step out onto the patio of that unassuming pub, Castiel is pleased to know that, after all this time, he can still be left in a state of wonder. Green vines creeping up brick walls and massive oak trees whose leaves have just begun to show some flushes of red and orange and yellow canopy over a few small tables. It is simple and beautiful, just like him, Castiel thinks.

 

“Do you like it?” Dean asks, his voice hushed but warm.

 

“I love it.” The words fall from Castiel’s lips into the nape of Dean’s neck as the angel presses a few appreciative kisses into tender skin. His head falls to Dean’s shoulder - where it stays as Dean orders a round of drinks for the two of them. When the two pints arrive, Castiel feels bold enough to reveal his stowaway - a thin paperback he has tucked into the pocket of his trenchcoat.

 

Dean takes a long sip from the lager he has ordered before feeling like he can adequately address Castiel’s date foul. Sure, Kansas wasn’t Costa Rica or Germany or Scotland, but was this day really going so poorly that Castiel was already seeking solace in print? Was a book of poetry really better company than he was?

 

“You know Cas, a guy might feel a little offended if you whip out a book during the first drink. I mean, you can at least have the decency to wait until I am tipsy enough to start quoting Caddyshack at you.”

 

As if on cue, Castiel’s neck instinctively begins to tilt towards the left, his eyes narrowing towards the man who was, once again, perplexing him with his behaviour. He decides to take a page out of Dean’s playbook, gulping down half his beer in one go before speaking. His fingers moving across the embossed title on the book’s cover, he decides to avoid further confusion by being totally, utterly _straight_ with Dean.

 

“Dean…”

 

_How does he manage to make a name sound so vulgar without trying?_

 

“When I was in the bookstore - I admit, I browsed through this one quite extensively before purchasing it. There was a poem within it that I thought - if you are willing - I thought I could try reading it to you.”

 

Castiel’s proposal is met with an occurrence as rare as a Hand of God. Dean Winchester is without words. His cheeks coloured pink, perhaps by the sun overhead, perhaps by the fact that he was in so deep he was not only willing _but excited_ to listen to Castiel read him poetry.

 

It’s not that Castiel is the first intellectually-gifted being with whom Dean has found himself infatuated. There were a few notches in his bedpost carved by persons who could, without a doubt, be considered bookworms. Still, with him, it was different. Here before Dean, sipping on a beer in a manner so seductive it should be outlawed, was a being older than recorded time. A being who, despite having a soft spot for humanity, had no inclination towards any literary flourishes until recently. Sure, Metatron had had a hand in that. But still, deep down, Dean knew that Castiel’s reach into the world of words and images and stories had its origin in something other than the scribe of God.

 

It was connected to Dean. To the want within Castiel to understand humanity for the sake of better understanding a single human.

 

And so, Dean looks to Castiel’s eyes, refusing to waive in their eagerness to share these words and the feelings they inspire in his nearly-human heart with Dean. The hunter, who did not think it possible to adore the angel any more, finds the impossible underway, his own heart stretching to make room for even more love for the other man.

 

The angel clears his throat before beginning - his voice still holding that familiar gravel tone, but now, under the changing leaves in waning late summer, somehow a few degrees softer.

 

_“ Having a Coke with you is even more fun than going to San Sebastian, Irún, Hendaye, Biarritz, Bayonne…”_

 

The poem is unlike those with which Dean is most familiar. Admittedly, that number wasn’t exactly massive, but still. It doesn’t rhyme, it doesn’t compare Dean to a summer’s day or flowers of any sort. It feels strange, but in a refreshing way: situated in the city rather than set against the sunset.

 

But it is, without a doubt, a love poem. For the speaker, whose words Castiel is using to tell Dean something, stands with the listener in front of the great paintings at the museum and confesses that:  

 

_“The portrait show seems to have no faces in it at all, just paint._

_You suddenly wonder why in the world anyone ever did them._ _  
_ _I look at you_

_and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world.”_

 

Dean Winchester doesn’t do poetry. But as he looks at Castiel, lips eagerly moving to bring to life each word printed across that used paperback, as he looks at eyes blazingly blue, as he looks at the peace that settles over Castiel’s face as he talks of all the things the masters got wrong because they hadn’t chosen the right subject to paint, he’s willing to admit that, even if he doesn’t _do_ poetry, Frank O’Hara might have gotten some things right.

 

\-----

 

The two only began to migrate home after a few more beers and several hours of directionless conversation, filled with bad impressions and rolled eyes and laughter so pure it could birth unicorns. By all accounts, it had been a pretty successful date.

 

The two men barely manage to haul the Impala’s contents - some three dozen books and half as many records - from the bunker’s garage back towards Dean’s bedroom. They put their booty down at the foot of the bed as they kick off their shoes towards the closet.

 

It had never been official, Castiel moving into Dean’s room. He had so few earthly possessions that he could very well pass as a visitor indefinitely, even if he had found himself curled up tightly against the hunter for weeks on end under those covers. And now, as he places down his pile of books on the floor of Dean’s bedroom, it hits him.

 

He’s finally got stuff, but isn’t sure where to put it.

 

Sure, the bunker’s got spare rooms and more closet space than any of the nomadic Winchesters know what to do with. Sam and Dean, for their part, haven’t exactly fully transitioned out of the tendency to only hold onto what can fit within Baby.

 

And so he shifts his feet across the floor, his eyes watching the way in which his feet dance across the same expanse of wood over and over again, searching for the words to ask Dean where these new things should go. Perhaps there was some space in the library for things _human_ as well as supernatural.

 

But Dean, Dean doesn’t give Cas the chance to ask that question. Because as soon as he’s made his way into the bedroom, he’s immediately tasked himself to clear some space on a shelf for Castiel’s haul.

 

“You probably have some way you want to arrange your books, but I think they’d look good there, don’t you?” the hunter asks, gesturing at the space above the dresser.

 

Castiel doesn’t have to look at the space to answer. He looks at Dean’s eyes - filled with consideration and hope and love - and feels his response pleading from his heart to be let free.

 

“I think you are correct, Dean.” The words precede a crushing kiss that, accompanied by the closeness of the angel’s body pressed against his, reveal to Dean something about Castiel.

 

Cas’s turn-ons include romantic gestures.

 

For some reason neither of the men can make sense of, they decide not to act on those feelings immediately. After a few kisses, they continue unpacking and decide to move from the bedroom to the war room to share a six pack and do a puzzle together. It is as boring and domestic of an activity as either man can imagine. And neither can think of a better way to spend a Saturday night.

 

\-----

 

“The creators of this must have studied under the tutelage of Naomi. Or Crowley. Or both.” The claim makes its way out from gritted teeth as Castiel once again confuses a piece of sky for ocean, cursing the pieces of cardboard for being near identical shades of blue. Dean silently smirks as he manages to piece together three more pieces of azure with ease, a drag of his beer his only celebration.

 

Castiel, to his credit, has been creative in his solutions. Of course he exhibited the classic “shoving pieces into other pieces that clearly don’t fit” maneuver. But that was accompanied by a whole host of others, such as pulling out his angel blade and carving new pieces - all square - out of those existing. Once he had accomplished a three by three grid of some part of the sea, he announced that he was officially done with his piece of the puzzle, gruffly declaring oceans to be “stupid” and “lame” and a range of other adjectives released in frustration that he, a celestial being of enormous power, sucked at slotting pieces of cardboard into other pieces of cardboard.

 

“Let’s do something else,” Dean suggests, nearly a saint for not providing commentary on Castiel’s childish antics. Because, if he’s being perfectly honest, the pout on Castiel’s face could be his undoing.

 

“But I was the one who wanted to do this! I just didn’t know how … frustrating it would be.”

 

“Frustrated, eh?” Dean licks his lips like a predator whose prey has fallen into his sight of vision. “Well Cas … let’s figure out a way to work out that frustration,” he remarks in perhaps the least clever entendre of all time.

 

As obvious as it may be what Dean is eluding to, it still manages to leave Castiel with at least the residue of doubt as to the other man’s intentions. “Dean, are you suggesting we cease putting together this cleverly marketed torture experience for intercourse? Because, I for one, would be very enthusiastic if such an offer was on the table.”

 

Dean shakes his head at the way in which Castiel has accepted his proposition, knowing and lamenting that he would have it no other way.

 

Liberating a bottle of Astroglide he had inconspicuously concealed within his jeans, Dean’s answer is clear.

 

“Such an offer is on the table.”

 

\-----

 

The offer is acted upon, quite literally, on the table. Somehow, caught up in a flurry of frantic kisses and the reckless abandon of all of their clothing, Dean had found the courage. In a voice so shy and small it was barely recognizable, he finally gave way to what his body had, for quite some time, been demanding he ask for.

 

 _“Please, Cas. Take me,”_   he mumbles towards a mess of dark brown hair as kisses arrange themselves across his clavicle like constellations in the sky.

 

Eyes wide with wonder, the angel looks up, certain the words he has just heard were imagined. And yet, suddenly colours can speak. The black of pupils spilling into the green - the blend of pink and tan of Dean’s complexion - the rose of his lips - they all sing one song together, in harmony: _yes_.

And so the angel spins Dean around, less in a frenzy than as if they are dancing some private waltz. His teeth lightly nibble on the hunter’s ear as his lithe fingers trail down the other man’s spine, slowly, deliberately moving towards their destination. The anticipation builds in Dean’s belly of the unknown sensations that await him ahead - and yet, strangely, he feels no desire to rush. No need to do anything other than indulge in each and every feeling Castiel is managing to wrest free from him.

 

Time is a concept that now seems utterly meaningless. This experience is measured instead in the number of times Castiel lavishes words of encouragement into the nape of Dean’s neck - how beautiful he looks, how good he is doing, what the sounds escaping from his lips are doing to him. Measured in the relentless rutting of Castiel’s hard cock against Dean’s hipbone, in the drops of precome he pushes into Dean’s flesh.

Measured in the movement of Dean’s fingers over the table in front of him, how he desperately seeks something solid as his whole body threatens to come undone. He manages to plant one hand over the whole of the Argentina while the other is afloat in the Atlantic ocean just off the western coast of Africa. The warmth of Castiel’s breath blows against his neck like a frantic wind, whispering dozens of phrases of praise against his shoulder blades. The nervousness he once knew now an utterly foreign feeling. Because now, as Cas slides a third slick finger past the breach, its tip quickly finding its way to that spot buried deep inside, that spot whose discovery has Dean’s legs trembling beneath him, all Dean wants is more.

 

As he works another finger within Dean, Castiel inhabits the role of the cartographer. The world is before him in a literal sense - the map of the war room beneath each of Dean’s palms. But those territories are meaningless to the angel, for before him is all that is worth exploring, for every inch of Dean’s skin is bare and at his disposal. He wants to map the mountains and plateaus of Dean’s form, quaking beneath him. He wants to record the way in which Dean’s body swells and shakes from his touch.To put ink to paper to draw all the routes his own hands and lips have travelled along Dean’s body. To memorialize the trust and love he feels radiating from Dean’s body into his own. But more than anything, Castiel wants to dive in. But not until Dean is ready - not until he cannot wait any longer.

 

With that perfect crook of his finger deep within, he is able to coax the necessary demand from Dean, a quaking _“now”_ booming off the bunker’s wall all the encouragement he needs to find from within Dean the answer to the ache filling him. Lining himself up, his chest collapsing into Dean’s back, becoming one.

 

\-----

 

Dean sleeps without waking once that night.

 

\-----

 

The two spend the next morning protesting leaving their bedroom, tucked in together tightly under their blankets, watching one episode of Dr. Who after another. They only cease their adventures Dean’s stomach begins to rumble louder than the TARDIS’s engines.

 

A heaping plate of bacon and eggs and toast later, the needle drops on one of the recently acquired records. Two fully grown men in matching robes dance throughout the bunker’s library to Television’s _Marquee Moon_.

 

\-----

 

“Cas?” Dean asks as he rubs away the shampoo moving dangerously close to his eyes.

 

“Yes, Dean?” the angel responds, continuing to run a lathered hand up and down Dean’s shaft, reminding Dean that cleanliness is next to godliness.

 

“I mean, I know we haven’t done anything all that extraordinary - but these past couple of days - just you and me - it’s been nice, right?”

 

Castiel manages to trade one favourite part of Dean’s anatomy for another, resting his hands along the other man’s jawline, arching his feet ever so slightly upward to meet Dean eye-to-eye, lips to lips. “Better than nice. Perfect. It has been a little slice of heaven.” He punctuates the assessment with a chaste kiss before lowering himself to his knees for decidedly less-chaste activities.

  
His fingers working through hair turned black by the steady stream of water, his cock disappearing over and over again into Cas’s mouth, warm and eager and singularly-purposed. Dean has to agree. _Perfect._   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem Castiel reads is "Having a Coke With You" by Frank O'Hara which I (Rosie) think is one of the sweetest love poems ever.


	6. Hawaii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our lovelies - deepest apologies for the delays. Between this chapter and the last, both Rosie and myself have written expansive and life consuming fanfics. (Well, and some quick smut in there too.) But really, this delay is my fault, as this was my chapter to write. 
> 
> And it was a great deal of fun to jump back into this world, where fluff and smut abounds - everything is happy, and nothing hurts. Rest assured, our other fics have come to a close (Rosie is just a few planned chapters away) and the last two chapters of this story are already planned and in the works. We hate reading incomplete WIP, so we hate it even more when we do that to others. Sorry!
> 
> We rejoin our boys on a blistery day in Kansas...

“It’s colder than a witch’s tit out here, Cas!” Dean called, his voice muffled by the howl of the oncoming storm. The weather had forced him to finally confront the fact that he and his brother might have a slight plaid problem. Because when he bundled up, it was flannel upon flannel upon flannel. Like he had raided the closet of some nineties Seattle grunge band to wear its contents all at once. The end result was that the layers of clothing gave him the appearance that he was several dozen pounds heavier. But it was the coldest winter Kansas has seen in nearly a decade, and he was so damn insistent on shoveling the snow away from the bunker garage himself. Cas stood near the exit, his arms folded, feeling spectacularly helpless.

“I told you I would assist!” Castiel shouted back, quickly answered by a nearly imperceptible snort.

Dean hurled another shovel full of snow behind him and stood, one hand pressed against the small of his back, the other wrapped around the handle of the shovel. His breath clouded around him as he surveyed his work - hardly a dent in the several feet of snow blocking the Impala’s exit. And the progress he’d made was disappearing in small measures as the storm ramped up around them.

The little scarf Cas had borrowed from Dean blew all around his face - he fiddled with it, tucking the edges closer into his coat. “Dean - I think you’ve made your point. Whatever it was,” Castiel said, turning on a heel and marching back to the front door of the bunker. He wasn’t surprised to hear the crunching of steel toed boots following closely behind - or the mumbled curses.

Safely inside and away from the bluster, each of the men started peeling off layers on the landing, amassing an enormous heap of warm and wooly winter gear for their next foray into  the blizzard. Once Dean had stripped to the innermost flannel he looked like himself again, save the wind-whipped red in his cheeks and the sheen of cold sweat.

“We should take a shower, get you warmed up,” Castiel suggested, hoping Dean would read his tone as innocent. Taking a step forward he took Dean’s frozen face between his hands, pushing warm grace through. Green eyes widened, then softened, then closed entirely to the feeling. He loved being able to do this for Dean - take care of him in some limited way. And when Dean wasn’t being completely petulant about doing things himself and not utilizing his ‘magic angel boyfriend’, he actually enjoyed being taken care of.

“Nah - I’m ok. I just wish we had gotten out of here like Mom and Sammy before the storm blew in.” Dean opened his eyes and turned his head, pressing a kiss against Castiel’s palm. “I think we’re stuck now.”

“It  _ has _ been a while since we’ve gone on a trip,” Castiel said. “We could get away to some place warmer.”

“Life’s been busy.” Dean shrugged. “This is the first weekend off we’ve gotten in a few months at least….”

Castiel let his hands fall to steady shoulders. “And your mom is with Jody and Donna on a fishing trip...and your brother’s at that hot yoga retreat with Eileen...”

Dean raised a dangerous eyebrow at the angel. Cas wasn’t often the instigator of frivolous behavior - Dean did that well enough for the both of them.  _ Except  _ when it came to their little getaways. Times that even now Dean didn’t think of instinctively when they had the opportunity. Because the lifelong habit of serving himself second seemed too difficult to break, even within the confines of their very solid relationship.

Which was actually fine by Cas, at least for now. Because then he could still see the bit of glee in green eyes as the angel whispered a suggestion for their destination.

“Let me grab a pair of boardshorts and the lube, and I’m in!” Dean declared, taking off in a run, his still snowy boots leaving a trail of wet footprints along the bunker’s concrete floors.

 

* * *

 

It took them until evening to get everything settled for their trip. Though they could, quite literally, travel by the seat of their pants, their trip to Scotland had proven that even a little preliminary planning went a long way. Castiel tried hard not to laugh at Dean as they stepped just outside of the bunker, the snow having grown by several inches in the few hours. And yet, the hunter insisted on wearing board shorts.

“Just transport us already!” he chattered, his flip flops disappearing in the snow. Castiel made a big show of moving his hands slowly, snickering as he did so until they landed on Dean’s bare arms.

“You’re a real dick sometimes, you know that?”

And like magic (or at least, Dean insists that it is) they were on a beach on Oahu. Just outside of the military base, in fact. The sun was just setting here, casting reds and yellows across the broad expanse of sky. Perhaps Dean had been right to transport in very little clothing, because Castiel found himself stiflingly hot very quickly .

“Wow,” Dean remarked. Castiel pulled his coat off as he followed Dean’s gaze down the beach. The water was calm; small carefree waves pushing up on the sandy, smooth shore. The air, which had been so harsh in Kansas, now was moist and warm. If he closed his eyes it almost felt like the breath from Dean’s lips before a kiss - only considerably saltier.

“I need to be in that water, Cas.” Dean smirked, pulling off his shirt. “Are you in?”

“I’m not stripping on the beach.”

Dean shrugged, nodding towards the bungalows that lined the top of the shore, where the sand faded to coarse grass. They were far less fancy than they’d appeared on the website, but for the price point, they looked like they’d provide shelter enough for the two nights they planned on staying. “Why don’t you check us in, and then meet me down here?”

Castiel opened his mouth to protest - after all, he’d done all the work in getting them there - but something in the wondering gaze Dean had looking across the water shut him up right away. Reminding him that his life’s greatest reward was watching Dean enjoy himself.  

“Of course.”

 

* * *

 

The borrowed board shorts were tight across his thighs, but they gave Castiel a certain lewd thrill. He always felt that way when he borrowed any of Dean’s clothes. He struggled to  contain his arousal as he made his way down the dusky beach.

The sandy blond head was barely visible above the waves. As Castiel drew closer he watched Dean dive and come back up, shaking himself like a dog as he surfaced. He considered not going in and just silently watching him - a pastime he greatly enjoyed, but one that Dean insisted classified him as a “creeper.” Instead, he trudged barefoot across soft sand to softer sand, finally meeting the warmth of the water. It lapped at his ankles, so comfortable he’d swear he was walking into a bathtub if he didn’t see the ocean right in front of him.

Dean spotted him across the small distance. He was beaming, and waving at Cas as if to distinguish himself in a crowd. In truth, they were the only two on the beach by now. His grin was infectious and Castiel reflected it as he walked deeper.

“It’s incredibly warm,” Castiel said. “It’s sort of - unnerving.”

“I love it!” Dean dove and disappeared. Without him, the sea in front of Castiel was an endlessly blue green, straight to the orange horizon. Then, as suddenly as he’d departed, Dean resurfaced just in front of Cas. Just long and just high enough to raise himself on Castiel’s shoulders, and push them both down into the water.

Cas went under easily, the crash of the water dull in his ears and salty water pushing against his sinuses. Underneath he heard a gurgled laugh from Dean - the little sneak. But two could play at that game. Before he surfaced again, he reached out and yanked at the bowleg in front of him. Dean yelped as he was pulled under, his arms flailing and splashing.

They’d never played like this before in all of their time together. This kind of horseplay - this level of silliness - Cas had only ever seen Dean this unrestrained with Sam. So, strange though it was, it felt good that Dean was behaving like a total fool with him. It felt like a quiet landmark on the road of their relationship. They both laughed deep from their bellies, ending tangled in each other in waist deep water and trying to catch their breath.

“You know, we’re all alone on this beach,” Dean said, wrapping his legs suggestively around Castiel’s trunk under the water. “We  _ could _ go skinny dipping.”

The sun was nearly set now, but the sky was bright enough to see the flicker of arousal in green eyes. Castiel smirked, folding his hands underneath Dean’s ass and -

“Did you just mojo my pants off?!”

Castiel crooked an eyebrow, “This is hardly the first time I’ve done that.”

“Dude, I only brought one pair!”

“Relax - they’re in the cabin,” Castiel cooed, pressing soft kisses down Dean’s nose, across his warmed cheeks.

“They better be…” Dean grumbled, letting his head fall back with a sigh. The hunter was buoyant and light in his grip. And - while Castiel was quite used to being strong enough to manhandle Dean - there certainly was an added thrill in his near weightlessness.

He crouched, sinking them down into the depths of the water until it just brushed Dean’s shoulders and the bottom of Castiel’s chin. With the quiet of the waves around them, he could focus on the sounds escaping the hunter as he latched himself to the pressure points on his neck. This is the pattern they’ve fallen into over the last few months - Dean will make an innuendo laden comment, Castiel will nibble at his neck until Dean’s hands grip into his hair, they’d fall together into bed or up against a wall somewhere, rutting until hands or mouths or bodies could pull a fulfilling release.

He was gripping Dean’s ass, spreading him wider within the warm water - just enough for the stretch to tantalize, not enough for the unfortunate feeling of salt water to sting - when it occurred to him. Months of this - how many exactly? Dean yelped in his ear, biting on the shell of it. It had been right around the beginning of fall - he mouthed at Dean’s clavicle, salty and wet - when they’d first kissed in Costa Rica. Now it was late winter, fading into spring….?

Six months. They’d been intimate for six months.

Though Dean had been in relationships for longer, six months - it still felt like something.  Perhaps because he’d really belonged to Dean for many years before their time with the fireflies. Perhaps because each and every day within those six months had been a blessing to Castiel. And as he saw laugh lines rather than worry lines mark Dean’s face this past half year, he believed the hunter felt the same. So as he gripped him tighter in the cooling water, Castiel recognized the need to mark the passage of time. To acknowledge in a gesture how much these few months have meant to him.

But his focus was swiftly shifted elsewhere as he felt Dean cup him. Planning for grand gestures could wait. Dean grew progressively heavier on his hips as Castiel walked them out of the water, fighting the urge to compare them with the emergence of Venus from the waves. They weren’t nearly as graceful anyway, kissing and grasping and laughing at their own ridiculousness. But alone, together, and happy. Truly happy.

* * *

 

Sunkissed freckles stretched across broad shoulders, shining in the sunlight. The glittery effect was due in large part to the sunscreen Cas had slathered on not fifteen minutes before. Even though he knew his mouth would fill with the bitter taste of chemicals, he couldn’t help leaning forward and pressing his lips to his favorite freckle.

Who was he kidding? They were all his favorites.

Dean turned his head a little to the kiss, before directing his attention back towards  their gear bag. Passing flippers, snorkel and mask to Castiel, who eyed them suspiciously.

“I know you can probably hold your breath forever and swim like Aquaman or something, but for the sake of appearances you really should gear up.” Dean shook the sand from his bare knees, standing with his own set. Castiel had seen Dean in only shorts before but not when he was so damn warm and sun kissed - Castiel ached to fly them off somewhere private immediately and spend his time mouthing at every inch of that skin as it turned shades darker in the sun. 

“My eyes are up here, Cas.”

Castiel frowned, meeting them. “You’re far too delicious in this light. We need to go to the tropics more often. Around less people.”

The beach was somewhat crowded, owing to the fact that they were at one of the more popular snorkeling locations on the island. Small children in big flippers ran, tripped, and then got up again without pause, past the two of them towards the ocean. They’d managed to claim a little piece of the strand for themselves.  Each sat, strapping on the ridiculously large plastic apparatuses. Castiel found the strap to his mask incredibly confining, tangling up in his dark hair painfully. The mouthpiece was even more confining, though he found wrapping his lips around the edge strangely easy (and lending itself to a variety of lewd thoughts). The flippers were the last straw, as he was unable to strap them on without the harsh scratch against his toes of too much sand pressed against stiff plastic. He removed them and tried again.

It was only a soft giggle to his right that made him stop his fiddling and look up into amused green eyes.

“You look - adorable.” Dean confessed, tucking his finger under Castiel’s chin. “So adorable, you made me break my own damn rule about calling other men adorable.”

“ _ Other _ men?” Castiel answered through the pipe in his mouth.

Dean gave a hearty laugh. “Other than me. Because of course,  _ I’m _ adorable.”

“ _ Right _ …” Castiel rolled his eyes and got to his feet. He leaned down a hand and helped the hunter, and together they traveled down the populated beach and into the water.

They submerged themselves while the water was still fairly shallow, readjusting their gear. Behind him, the gleeful screams of children and people yelling for and at one another seemed chaotic and busy - putting him on edge. But as he dove again with Dean, this time managing to  _ actually breathe _ through the snorkel, the world became blissfully quiet. The water had its own powerful noise but it was soothing. He looked across the small space at Dean, his shorts billowing around his lower half. The hunter’s mouth was too occupied, but Cas could tell looking at his eyes - he was smiling.

They swam together towards the coral reefs, careful to avoid stepping on any of it. Adjusting to breathing out of the little tube was difficult at first but became second nature as he was distracted by the wildlife around them. The sun was so bright that the water was nearly crystal clear, making the neon colors of the fish pop against the white of the coral. They seemed to pay Dean and him no mind, either, swimming past them as if they were just another object in the sea. Suddenly he felt Dean’s hand at his own. He looked up to see Dean pointing at a fish directly in front of them. It wasn’t remarkable like some of the others they’d seen - a plain tuna, about the size of his foot and a shiny grey. The fish seemed to pause in looking at the two of them. Perhaps he was - animals were known to pick up on his wings on occasion. Castiel chimed a quick hello to the animal before he remembered the snorkel was blocking anything he was trying to say, and it quickly swam away.

Dean straightened his body and surfaced, Castiel close behind.

“Were you talking to the fish?” Dean asked they spit the snorkels out. Cas licked his lips.

“I just said hello.”

“What was the fish saying?”

Castiel waved his hands in the water to stay afloat. “That he was honored to be in the presence of such a renowned hunter and angel. He thanked us for our efforts in the various apocalypses.”

Dean pulled his mask of with some effort, running a hand through his hair. His mouth twitched in a smile. “Really?!”

It wasn’t very often that Castiel took advantage of the reality that he’d been around thousands of years, and Dean had a tendency to believe him when he spoke. It was cruel, really. Funny, but cruel.

“No Dean. Fish don’t talk. They’re fish. He probably thought we were food.”

He was lucky he’d not removed his mask, because when Dean wanted to, he could create a sizeable splash.

* * *

 

As they swam to shore Castiel caught a glint of something black and shiny along the ocean floor. At first glance, it reminded him of the Impala. Smoothly he reached down to grab it - a rock, jagged along the edges but strangely beautiful. He pocketed it before Dean could see, and surfaced from the water.

* * *

 

Sand clung to their feet in clumps as they made the short hike to the beachside bar. The circular shape and thatched roof made it look like a postcard, with two female bartenders on either side serving. A cute blonde (the shorter of the two) was closest as they approached. She raised an eyebrow in acknowledgement at them as they sat, finishing the last flourish on something that looked ... incredibly fruity.

“You think I could persuade her to make you a drink strong enough to catch a buzz?” Dean smiled and picked up the little standing menu in front of them. The drinks had names like “Blue Hawaiian” and “Lava Lava”, all of which, despite speaking every language of man, were practically gibberish to Castiel.

“I think she’d have to leave the bottle. Or four.”

“Lush.”

The other woman rounded the bar in a hurry. The brunette was frantic as she caught their eye and ran past, crouching to search among the bottles lined along the inside.

“Are we out of Blue Curacao?” she called out as the other woman added a little umbrella to her masterpiece. With a smile she set it down in front of her customer, a man in his late forties sporting the worst sunburn Cas had ever seen.

“Other side of the bar, to the left of the second fridge.” The blonde answered seamlessly, swiftly shifting in front of Dean and Cas. She sized them up independently, her light blue eyes finally falling on the sandy blonde (who was still pretty sandy) to his left. Cas could hardly blame her - his own blue eyes had been drawn to him like magnets for years.

“And what can I get you boys?”

Dean wriggled in his seat - he knew when he was being admired. It made him act a little like a peacock. Cas supposed he should feel jealous at the way she looked him over but he found that he was mostly proud. Proud that this creature he knew had a soul of beauty that rivaled his exterior chose to live his short life beside him.

“Honestly, what I’d really like is to get  _ him _ drunk.” Dean pointed his finger as Castiel.

“Why? Hoping to get lucky?”

Castiel’s eyes widened, but the next words tumbled out of him before he could consider how they’d be received. “He doesn’t need to get me drunk for  _ that _ .”

He added a wink, at least. It was only the fourth time in his existence he’d ever done that. Still felt weird.

The blond woman smiled broadly, turning as pink as the unicorn button up shirt she wore. “Oh, I’m sorry! I assumed you two were ‘just bros’.” She laughed. “Or at least trying to convince the world you were.”

“Wasn’t  _ all that _ long ago that was a pretty good description of us.” Dean shrugged with a little shame. Castiel reached under the bar to rest a hand on his thigh.

“I’m assuming by ‘bro’ you mean ‘brother’.” Castiel gave the leg a squeeze. “Dean did tell me I was like a brother to him on multiple occasions. I suspect that isn’t  _ exactly _ true, as though he’s very close with his brother, to my knowledge he doesn’t let him-”

“OK Cas - that’s enough,” Dean yelped, grabbing the hand on his leg tightly. “See why I need to get him drunk?”

“I think he’s doing just fine on his own,” she said. “By the way, the name’s Rosie.” Leaning back she called towards the other bartender. “Hey! Come meet our new friends!”

The brunette, who had a fresh stain of blue on her equally blue dress, wiped her hands on her apron as she approached. Cas got the impression she was new, as he looked up and down her arms at the various splashes of sticky alcohol. But unlike the blonde she went straight to Castiel first, fixing him with her dark brown eyes.

“Hey, I’m Dean,” the hunter started from beside Cas as she moved right past him, “and this is Cas.”

“I’m Becky,” she said, extending a hand to Castiel. He took it politely and shook it, a little confused why the woman was looking at him that way when Dean was sitting  _ right there _ .

“Down tiger, he’s taken.” Rosie rolled her eyes. “By blondy over here.”

Becky looked crestfallen for only a split second, before her smile returned, finally looking over at Dean. “Lucky duck. You two make an adorable couple! So, has Rosie actually helped you out yet, or just harassed you?”

“I am very polite, thank you.” Rosie jabbed at Becky’s side. “Looks like the goal is to get Cas here drunk. I was thinking since you’re still training, you might need to make a lot of practice drinks….”

Becky nodded sagely, a hint of a smile at her lips. “Oh yes, good point Ms. Manager. And what should I make first? To be trained on, I mean?” She glanced down at the menu and then back at Castiel, clearly expecting an answer from him.

“Uhh….”

“Why don’t you just start at the top and work your way down?” Dean suggested with a wink. “I find that’s the best way to do a thorough job, wouldn’t you say?”

And so they sat with the two women until the sun went down, trying every fruity drink on the menu, and even some Rosie made up on the fly. By the time they left, with smiles, hugs and swapped email addresses, Castiel felt sufficiently buzzed. He was able to transport them back to their cabin in one piece but fell unceremoniously onto the bed as they walked through the door.

“Well I’d say the mission was a success,” Dean said as he toed off his own sandals and reached for Castiel’s own.

“I should heal myself, Dean.” The words ran together as they left Castiel’s lips. How funny are words, anyway? “In case we get attacked, I want to be alert…”

Dean shook his head as he grabbed at Castiel’s arms, pulling him upright. “Nope. You are staying drunk. How could you think of ruining all of Becky’s hard work?”

“I think she liked me,” Castiel slurred. Suddenly his arms were around Dean’s neck - how did that happen? “But Rosie liked you, Deeen. I could tell. I didn’t care.”

“You didn’t? You weren’t insanely jealous and wrathful?” They were moving closer to the bathroom, and he could hear running water as he was sat on a closed toilet seat. “What’s the use of having an angel boyfriend if he doesn’t get all smitey sometimes?”

“Oh, no Deen she was nice….” The chill of the room hit him as Dean pulled Castiel’s shirt off, running his fingers along his still sunkissed skin. “I didn’t care because you love me and not like you love Sam.”

Dean laughed at that. It was a wonderful sound, echoing through the bathroom. Then Cas was on his feet again and his sandy shorts loosened, dropping to his feet. Dean helped him step out of them and together they walked into the shower.

The water felt amazing. No, scratch that. It felt great, but nothing compared to the slick body behind him, holding him up with one arm, rubbing him down with soap in the other.

“I love you, Dean.” Castiel slumped against him, feeling his slippery hands everywhere at once. He  _ could _ heal himself and stand up right, easing Dean’s burden. Hell, he could clean himself with the snap of his fingers. But feeling Dean take care of him was such a rare treat, he couldn’t help indulging just a little longer.

Later, as he burrowed warm and soft under the covers, he felt the press of Dean’s lips against his temple.

“Love you too, drunk Cas.”

* * *

 

“It is really annoying that you can heal yourself from a well-earned hangover.”

Dean sat with his back to a brightly muraled wall. They’d found some hole in the wall coffee shop on their way to Manoa Falls, filled to the brim with pastries. Castiel had insisted Dean try some of the local fruit - being that they were in the tropics, he wanted to see the look of glee on the hunter’s face as he indulged in some proper pineapple. Dean insisted that he’d get to the fruit in due time, but for now was nearly frothing at the mouth as his steaming breakfast arrived via waitress.

“Now  _ this _ is a true Hawaiian delicacy, Cas.” Dean tipped up his plate a little, which didn’t exactly make the contents more appealing as they slimed down into each other. “Spam and eggs with gravy and rice. Breakfast of the gods!”

“There is no God I’m aware of that would put that meat near their mouths,” he cringed. “I don’t know that you’d even call that meat.”

“What I call it is salty goodness. Don’t be jealous.”

Dean moaned loudly as he took his first bite. From the next table over, an older couple turned to the sound. Cas gave a sheepish little wave.

Eventually he did get Dean to partake in the small slice of pineapple he’d ordered with his coffee. The moan was not quite as loud, but it was twice as dirty as Castiel fed the bit of fruit to him. He let his fingers rest on soft lips, and Dean kissed and licked them quickly clean.

“I think we need to increase your fruit consumption.”

Dean winked. “You know, if you fed things to me with your hands, I’d probably even choke down a salad once in awhile.”

“I can do that!” Castiel replied quickly.

* * *

 

The internet had told them the hike to Manoa Falls was incredibly easy. “For beginners!” it said. And while both of them were physically able to complete the hike without breaking a sweat (a metaphorical sweat for Cas) the mile - it left Dean restless. 

“I’m going to take that stick away from you,” Castiel chided as Dean ran a long stretch of branch he’d found against the rocky pathway. It clanked and rattled without rhythm.

“You sound like my mom.”

“You’re acting like a child.”

Dean huffed, tossing the stick to the side of the trail. “I just don’t  _ do _ nature, man. I mean, it’s beautiful, and I know  _ Jurassic Park _ was filmed here and everything but - it’s just a little - boring.”

“It’s just supposed to be beautiful and serene Dean. It’s supposed to calm you down, not make you want to run circles around me.”

“You know what  _ would _ calm me down?” Dean raised an eyebrow.

“Here?”

“Well not, right here in the middle of the damn trail, Cas.” He nodded towards a more lush meadow. “Fly us over there. I’ll make it worth your while, I promise.”

Castiel knew an offer he couldn’t refuse when he heard one. With a rather abrupt flap of his wings, the two fled the trail for greener pastures.

* * *

 

As soon as landed, Dean wordlessly took the flannel from around his waist and spread it across a sparse patch of grass. They were entirely secluded, practically canopied by trees, ferns and bushes, all of them bright green and drying out from the morning dew. The hunter lead Castiel to sit down on the makeshift blanket. It wasn’t comfortable, and he could already feel the damp saturating through to his pants, but he was too busy being entranced.

Because sometimes Dean made love like this - quiet, reverent, peaceful -  _ deliberate _ . It wasn’t so much that he was taking charge, but that he was taking care. Dean was a great deal more perceptive to emotions and surroundings than he generally received credit for, and it made him, in these moments, incredibly sensitive and gentle.

Dean crouched between Castiel’s spread and bent legs, leaning forward to kiss him with a contained passion. Lips moved from lips, to chin, to neck. He didn’t strip Castiel but lifted his shirt, splaying a hand across his ribs with one hand, peppering kisses in a straight, purposed line down his chest. With his other hand he quickly unbuttoned and unzipped Castiel’s borrowed shorts.

Castiel let himself throw his head back with a sigh. They were truly alone out here - well, save for the birds and small beasts that gave them a wide berth. And when Dean finally took him into his mouth, he was glad for it. Because he had no desire to be quiet.

Dean took his time with his task, adding his hand to draw the angel close to the edge and pull him back again. In the end Cas was practically hollering to come, his hands tight in Dean’s short hair and his hips pushing off the flannel. He came hard, bending forward and grabbing Dean’s waist tightly. The last drops were hardly licked clean before he grabbed Dean by the shoulders and shoved him back, completely ravenous to taste the hunter at the back of his throat. Dean fell against wet grass with a laugh, until he felt Castiel’s lips wrap around him. Then nothing was funny anymore.

* * *

 

Castiel wiped his mouth and sat up, for a moment leaving Dean satiated and struggling for breath. He went to button up his pants when he felt the small object he’d stashed in his pocket the day before. And although post coital state - with grass stains and bruised lips - wasn’t exactly the romantic scene he’d pictured, there was something about this moment that felt perfect. He enclosed the tiny object in his hand and held it out. Dean took it as he sat up, flaccid and still exposed, with leaves sticking out of his hair.

“What’s this?” Dean asked, turning it over.

“Its - well, it’s excessively sentimental but I wanted to mark the occasion with an object.” Castiel reached out and ran a finger along the rock, then down the lifeline of Dean’s palm. “I didn’t suppose you wanted jewelry or flowers, though I did see the way you stopped to smell the plumeria as we passed, so perhaps I misjudged-”

Dean sighed with a smile. “Cas - what’s the occasion?”

“Oh,” Castiel said. “It’s been nearly six months since we were first intimate.”

Dean blinked, fixing his eyes first on the object in his hand then back to the angel. “You mean our kiss? In Costa Rica?”

Castiel nodded, suddenly nervous. “I hope my nostalgia doesn’t cause you discomfort Dean.”

“No, babe, don’t be silly,” Dean closed his fist around the rock and leaned forward, pressing his lips across Castiel’s shoulder. The angel caught his eye and raised an eyebrow, but Dean just snorted. “Alright, that’s not all  _ that _ far-fetched. I’m usually a dick about stuff like this. But I think it’s sweet that you remembered. Just, you know, now I have to go do something manly like grill a steak.”

“Lava rock symbolizes courage,” he added. “And perseverance in the face of extreme circumstances. Two characteristics I’ve always admired in you.”

“Ok, now you really are getting sappy.”

“I could keep going….”

Castiel had always been a quick study - shortly after their first kiss he’d learned that the easiest way to shut up Dean was to kiss him. Dean was considerably slower on the uptake but nevertheless put his knowledge to good use.

* * *

 

The rock made it’s home on the little bookshelf in their room. Cas would sometimes see Dean touch it as he walked by, a small grin pulling at his lips.


	7. Japan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas and Dean do some hunting on the other side of the globe. Dean has feelings. Cas has feelings. EVERYONE. HAS. FEELINGS.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So guess what! Finding time to write when your job exhausts you (in a good way!) is really hard. Many apologies that there was (yet again) a huge lapse in between chapters.
> 
> This one was supposed to be the last but I just kept writing and writing and it was too much. So I split it! This is the second to last chapter - the actual final one is mostly written and will be posted soon. Definitely by the end of 2017. Joking! Mostly...
> 
> As always, your kudos and comments give us life.

* * *

 

“Dean!” The name forces itself from Castiel’s lungs, leaving a singed pain in its wake. The warning doesn’t come fast enough. Two scaly arms slink from the shallow depths and hook themselves around the hunter’s ankles. Dean tries to dig his heels into the muddy shore, but it is only moments before he’s pulled into the murky waters, his head quickly disappearing below the surface.

 

Castiel takes off from the temple as fast as he can. April dawn illuminates the path just enough for him to weave through pruned topiaries, trudge through tall grass and dart around sprawling trees towards the water's edge. Each huff of breath forming misty clouds of fog in front of him. Ending up at the spot where he last saw Dean. Finding nothing there but still, dark waters.

 

The angel darts his eyes around the steady stream, looking for any sign of the monster - a kappa that was making the children of Tōno his breakfast, lunch and dinner.

 

 _An opportunity to expand their horizons_ , he’d suggested to Dean. To learn more about supernatural creatures native to other regions of the world. As he stands helplessly at the riverbank, Castiel curses his cosmopolitan spirit. He looks around for a sign - any sign - to provide direction.

 

What he finds are cucumbers.

 

To be more specific, a basket filled with cucumbers fifty metres downstream, sitting atop a picnic table. He knows from the lore that they are the kappa’s favourite food. And so Castiel, Angel of the Lord, runs towards the bounty, lobbing one phallic fruit after another into the waters before him, hoping to lure the monster.

 

Call it kismet but his plan - it works. The aquatic demon breaks the surface with a nearly breathless Dean still in its grasp, unhinging its jaw to gorge on the gherkins. Shedding his trenchcoat as quick as he can, Castiel dives in, hastily swimming towards the creature, towards Dean. And then - that harmony of movement begins, their two bodies somehow working as one to wrestle the monster. Slowly but surely battling the waves together, pulling the reptilian creature back to shore. Heaving its body onto land, Dean holding it in place as Castiel huffs out a string of words in Enochian.

 

One of which, apparently, was the celestial term for salt - that element that had saved Dean Winchester’s hide so many times before. This was no exception - for the utterly ordinary combination of elements proved to be precisely what was needed to pull out every last drop of water the kappa clung to, until it dried out entirely, becoming demonic jerky.

 

After the death by dehydration, Dean rolls over and collapses on his back, coughing up water that stubbornly clung to his airways. Castiel sits down at his side, running his fingers over the claw marks beneath torn plaid, willing Dean’s flesh to be healed. When his skin was once again an uninterrupted expanse of freckles, Castiel finally lets himself relax, curling into Dean and nestling his head on the other man’s shoulder.

 

“Dean, this shouldn’t have happened. I’m sorry I let it happen.” The apology comes out in a fragile voice as Castiel traces circles over Dean’s wrist, over and over. A little more relieved every time he feels that stubborn pulse that refuses to quit. Reluctantly his eyes glance up at Dean, who looks utterly spent by the morning’s activities. “I will make this up to you,” the angel solemnly vows before returning his attention to caressing Dean’s still damp skin.

 

* * *

 

In the aftermath of a hunt, it used to take hours for his adrenaline to dip again. But here, with nothing more than the angel in his arms, Dean Winchester feels at peace. It’s not an absence - not a momentary void of conflict. It’s a warm tingling that electrifies his fingertips and toes, that makes everything inside him feel whole. But it isn’t until this moment - as the sky’s muted gray is painted with more colours each and every minute - that the peace becomes something more, something with a name.

 

Because it is in this moment - unremarkable as it may be - that Dean Winchester realizes he wants to spend the rest of his life with Castiel.

 

It’s the angel’s concern, _no_ , his utter obstinance, to pledge himself responsible for Dean’s well-being that sparks it. The way in which he had miraculously, somehow, found a companion he didn’t know was possible. Dean had tried - had wanted - intimacy with others. But Cas was the only one who could bear the burden of loving him not _despite of_ his occupation, but somehow, _because_ of it. Spending their lives together fighting for the world, facing their worst fear each and every day.

 

Of losing the other.

 

How they didn’t let fear of the unknown, dangerous future stand in the way of what brought their everyday lives meaning.

 

And just like that, Dean is writing his vows in his head. Recognizing the peculiarity of the promises the two need to make to each other. Because other couples pledge until death do us part as a sign of the seriousness of their love. But death - it was too small an experience, too minor an inconvenience to keep Dean and Castiel from one another.

 

They did share a more profound bond, after all.

 

So Dean realizes that this moment - while nice - it’s not how he wants it to go down. Because eight years of pining - eight years of putting their lives on the line for one another without admitting it was because _they couldn’t imagine life without one another_ \- it deserved more than a spontaneous proposal. So he pulls the angel a bit closer, and does what he does best. Dean keeps his feelings to himself.

 

“Occupational hazard Cas. Nearly drowning or becoming some mook’s meal - just another day on the job,” Dean jokes as he places a light kiss on Castiel’s forehead.

 

Cas frowns at that, and demands that Dean experience more in Japan than nearly dying. Defenseless against his expression, equal parts solemn and stubborn, the hunter acquiesces.

 

And then it’s just the two of them nestled in the grass, watching the sun rise over a distant mountain range, wrapped in each other’s embrace next to the husk of another monster vanquished.

 

* * *

 

Dean declares Japan to be “officially awesome” after slurping down the last ramen noodle at Ide shoten. He was uncharacteristically taciturn throughout the entire meal. But, if he was being really honest, he had already come to that conclusion earlier in the day, when Castiel pulled him in close to kiss under the cherry blossoms in Kyoto.

 

* * *

 

Most mornings, Dean woke first. As it turned out, a lifetime of needing no more than his requisite four hours of sleep was a hard habit to break. And while Castiel, grace intact, didn’t need sleep, he sure did enjoy it.

 

But just because Dean woke first didn’t mean it was easy to get out of bed. It was monumentally difficult to rise and shine when burrowed in the supreme comfort of being spooned by Cas. Hipbones pressed flush with his back; an arm stretched over Dean’s shoulders, those lithe fingers dangling in front of Dean’s chest, as if unconsciously guarding his heart. But mornings were the time when the bunker was still and quiet. When Dean could use his honed sense of how to plan and scheme to begin to sketch out a proposal fitting a love story of their magnitude.

 

And so he begins his morning ritual. Raising Castiel’s right hand to his lips, kissing his knuckles one by one. Trying to retain his heat, to hold onto that lingering sense of warmth of Castiel’s body meeting his own. Making sure to look back - just once - before he closed his door, smiling softly at the sight of the angel sleeping peacefully.

 

And then he’d move down that seemingly endless corridor, socked feet shuffling across cold granite. Towards the library, robed and ready for research. Except for this purpose, all the lore that lined the bunker’s walls was useless. Those weighty tomes recognized the perils of the world in which they inhabited. Those books were there to protect them.

 

But the world - Dean’s world - less and less was it something to fear.

 

The world had begun to change for Dean. The Impala’s odometer registered every mile he had clocked as a hunter over some thirty-five years. But this year’s travels were different - it was an exercise in appreciating the world they had fought so hard to save, time and time again.

 

It was a world worth the sacrifice.

 

But as his sense of the world expanded, it too became concentrated. Because the oceans, no matter how hard they tried, could never reflect the blue of Cas’s eyes. Every stretch of sky and expanse of land was only worth traversing if it hung over _their_ heads, if it passed under _their_ feet.

 

And so Dean searched, not for spells or solutions. Roaming through the continents each and every morning to find some place worthy. For some space within this world that seemed enough to tell Cas.

 

That the world had many wonders. But none greater than him.

 

* * *

 

“These are a religious experience,” Dean mumbles, crumbs of croissant falling from his lips onto the kitchen table. The remark gets a furrowed brow from Castiel. You could take the angel out of heaven, but, as it turned out, you couldn’t take the angst about light blasphemies out of the angel.

 

Sam smirks at his brother, cheeks filled in such a way that, though he was loathe to admit Crowley was right about anything, Dean did possess more than a passing resemblance to a squirrel. “Dude, I’m glad you like them but - chew. And please, for the love of God, stop moaning.”

 

Cas says a silent prayer pleading for forgiveness for yet another act of sacrilege committed by a Winchester. But not before rolling his eyes. Never before rolling his eyes.

 

It’s remarkable how rare it is for the four of them to start off the morning this way. Four of the fiercest hunters this world had ever seen sporting nothing more than pajamas and, in Sam’s case, a serious case of bedhead. But coffee and croissants and each other’s company - there were few better ways to start the day.

 

Mary smiles over her cup, sipping away at it. “You know, France might be nice,” she says softly, a slight smile curling. Dean’s cheeks are still stuffed with buttery pastry, but he nods in agreement.

 

“I’m not sure Dean would survive a Parisian pâtisserie,” Sam quips. Joking. Mostly.

 

“I’m serious,” Mary responds, in that maternal tone that was still quite effectual at getting all three of them in line. “I’ve always wanted to go. And the timing - it seems right. Been quiet for quite some time.” She paused - seemingly to consider the fates she tempted with such a statement. Looking at them individually, she made up her mind and continued. “The four of us could sneak away for a while without causing too much damage. What do you think?”

 

There is the pretense that the question is for all three men, but everyone knows that really, Mary’s asking the angel. Cas nervously drums at the edge of the table, staring down at the nearly vacant black pool inside his mug. “A family vacation sounds wonderful but - it’s just that - I don’t care much for Paris,” he softly murmurs. The lines that quickly carve into his face suggest it is an understatement.

 

Dean senses it’s a sore spot. Instinctually he takes Cas’s hand into his own before pressing on. “What do you got against the City of Lights? Cause the impression I get is that there’s great food and lots of wine and liberated women. All things that get the Dean Winchester seal of approval.” Dean waggles his eyebrows, always one to fully commit to a bit, no matter how terrible the material. “Oh, and art and history and stuff - if you’re into that sort of thing.”

 

The combination of words - they shouldn’t sound like an insult to Sam. But they do, which earns Dean a double serving of bitchface and a somewhat restrained punch to his shoulder.

 

Castiel braces himself before steeling his resolve to meet Dean’s gaze. “The memories I have of that place - the few times I’ve been there - things haven’t gone well.”

 

Dean delivers a quick squeeze to the hand he holds within his own, gently prodding in the way only he knew how. “Care to elaborate?”

 

“It’s not of import,” the angel insists, before excusing himself back towards the kitchen, his now empty cup a much needed excuse out of this conversation.

 

Dean really considers giving Cas his space. It’s just - in their time together - more often than not, leaving things to fester had a way of coming back to bite them in the ass. The dubious looks from his mother and brother seemed to agree. And so Dean meanders towards the kitchen. He finds Cas there - his palms pressed down into the counter, head hung low. It doesn’t take angelic ears to hear his breath is coming out short and staggered.

 

It’s a sight that every fibre of Dean’s being needs to disrupt. Quickly he cuts across the space and slips his arms around Cas’s waist, presses a kiss in the crook of his neck. The borrowed threadbare t-shirt Cas is wearing hangs loose.

 

Would feeling Cas’s body through a single layer of fabric ever be less than thrilling?

 

The angel turns, letting his head fall to rest on Dean’s shoulder. His hair, mussed as always, smells of honey and cinnamon. The real thing - not some perfumed imposter. Inhaling its sweet scent, Dean tries to match its comfort, holding Castiel tightly, rocking him slowly and back and forth. Establishing a rhythm before making the softest of demands.

 

“Talk to me.”

 

His words are intentional - a reference to those moments before he’s chosen to delve into feelings rather than evade them. The familiar phrase is enough to give Castiel the strength to recompose himself. He pulls back from Dean, taking the hunter’s calloused hands into his own. Castiel’s fingers do a restless dance across Dean’s palms.

 

His eyes are closed tightly when he speaks. “It’s silly, given what we’ve been through, to carry such a prejudice.”

 

“You’re allowed to be irrational sometimes, Cas. You’re only human.”

 

 _Human_. Dean tries to call the word back. But it’s a renegade; it insists on leaving his lips and just … hanging there between him and Cas. This is why he didn’t talk all those years. Too easy to say the wrong thing.

 

But, like some sort of miracle, the faux pas seems to have the opposite effect: it makes Cas feel a little better. Bold enough to finally meet Dean’s line of sight. The corners of his mouth turning up ever so slightly when he speaks again. “Not quite. But thank you - for the compliment.”

 

Maybe it’s the gravity of the moment, the weight of the impending conversation, but without words the two sink to the floor. Dean presses his back flush to the kitchen cabinets; Castiel settles himself between that exquisite pair of bow legs, safe and secure.

 

As it turned out, Castiel had a terrible string of luck within Paris. Some of his misfortunes were easier to suffer than others. For instance, taking on a vessel for one of the very first times during the Feast of Fools in the thirteenth century - it was a terribly confusing ordeal, to say the least. And witnessing Napoleon’s “first attempt at coitus in a den of iniquity” was … not one of the angel’s most pleasant memories.

 

But those memories weren’t what kept Castiel wanting to stay firmly outside of Paris’s city limits. No, the reason for that was all too easy to decipher.

 

It had been the site of so much pain.

 

War, Famine, Pestilence, Death - for Dean, these were Horsemen. Entities with immense power, but ultimately conquered by Team Free Will. For Castiel the reality was not so simple. For those beings had ravaged that city time and time again. Pestilence was ever present for the Plague; Famine was among faces in a crowd of those turned away from bread lines; War’s victims piled high in city streets through the centuries. The angel had witnessed - but was forbidden from interfering with - the misery and death of millions.

 

He once again refers to that crack in his chassis - his inability to even feign the apathy of his brothers and sisters towards human life. What his brethren saw as weakness - his sensitivity and care towards what they considered an inferior race - it’s perhaps that quality of Castiel’s essence that Dean is enamoured with most. Not only his compassion but his strength to endure - to never lose hope, even in the darkest of days, that humanity truly was a masterpiece.

 

On the floor of the kitchen, Cas speaks of his eternity. Of how he has watched a multitude of lives grow, unfold, end. Dean listens to every word attentively, but it’s what Cas doesn’t say that resonates the most. How he chose this life - Dean’s life - Dean - among them all.

 

That he was different.

 

It should be overwhelming - it’s not that it’s not - but there’s one feeling that rises above all else in that moment. Not inferiority or intimidation. But that this being within his arms - this being whose experiences were beyond Dean’s comprehension - this being valued little else above the common, human things Dean could offer him.

 

And then the two men sit for some time without talking at all. Dean runs his hands up and down Castiel’s bare arms; the angel paints Enochian poetry on the hunter’s knees.

 

It is in this state of serenity that Castiel once again speaks, tipping his head up towards Dean. “Still, you’ve shown me time and time again a different way of seeing the world Dean. Perhaps Paris would be different through your eyes.”

 

Dean could not remedy Castiel’s past, couldn’t erase the eons of pain the angel could endure. But looking down at those blue eyes, still vibrant and full of hope, Dean does not feel powerless. Because he can offer the angel something worth holding onto. A happy memory to counterpose against so many unpleasant.

 

He presses a kiss within that mess of hair, telling the angel to take some time to mull it over. But the hunter has come to a decision of his own.

  
On the floor of the kitchen, Dean decides. Cliches be damned, he was going to ask Cas to marry him in Paris.


	8. Paris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We end this little journey with Dean and Cas in Paris.

* * *

 

“Are you sure?” Dean asks, one hand on the wheel, the other gripping Castiel’s tightly. The angel had insisted he could zap the four of them, plus the Impala, across the Atlantic. The thought of Baby ending up a rusted wreck on the ocean floor - it was an image the hunter tried to shake from his imagination.

 

The angel does not respond with words, but rather, that patented nonplussed look that made Dean fall just a little bit deeper in love each and every time he saw it. There certainly was a stubborn streak running through Cas’s certitude that he was up to the challenge, but Dean did not dare contest him further.

 

It was the least he could do, considering Castiel’s reconsideration. It was a week after the first suggestion of the family vacation that the angel had changed his mind.

 

Castiel had come to his decision just shortly after he had come decidedly on Dean’s chest.

 

Maybe it’s not an ideal time or place to replay that particular memory but Dean’s mind, half-fixated on calming his nerves, half-unable to ever resist a particularly vivid contribution to the spank bank, didn’t seem to care.

 

_“Let’s do it,” Cas gasps, collapsed beside the hunter._

 

_“Again already Cas? That’s one hell of a rebound you got there.”_

 

_“No not that.” Cas quickly corrects himself. “Well yes, let’s do that again, but that wasn’t what I meant. Let’s go. To Paris.”_

 

_Dean swipes a t-shirt across his chest, calculating his words precisely as he rolls onto his side. Cas must know he’s in for a doozy because Dean don’s his favourite little cocky little smirk. “Now I know sex with me is earth-shattering, life-affirming stuff, but I want to make sure you’re of sound mind and body. Because your first reaction to the idea was - less than enthusiastic.” The way Dean’s fingertips tap across Castiel’s taut stomach - it’s as if they are typing ellipses at the conclusion of the tentative suggestion._

 

_Cas does not speak - not immediately. Dean feels a sudden panic surge; he’s said something so stupid the angel is going to poof right out of bed. He’s more than pleasantly surprised when instead Cas straddles him, pinning his shoulders to the bed. He tries to mumble some faint, half-hearted protest but is immediately silenced by a finger Cas firmly presses to his lips. The finger remains there as Cas flicks his tongue across the bottom of Dean’s earlobe before whispering, in a voice even lower than usual, that his resolution isn’t the result of his current state of bliss._

 

_The angel’s argument begins with a series of sucks at the most sensitive spans of Dean’s neck. It’s a hell of an opener. “I am excited to...” he breathily gasps as his fingers slowly walk across the other man’s chest, “saunter along the Seine with you.”_

 

_“I feel exhilarated…” he rumbles as his teeth gently tug at one of Dean’s nipples, then the other, “at the prospect of spending pre-dawn tucked away together at some cabaret.” Dean’s heels dig into the bed, his hands desperately grasping at the sheets._

 

_Castiel’s mouth, meanwhile, plants a series of sloppy kisses across Dean’s sternum and onto stomach, still tasting his own semen mixed with Dean’s sweat. He stops just short of Dean’s dick. A muffled sob breaks through Dean’s teeth._

 

_“I am elated to admire all that is holy at Notre Dame,” Castiel declares in a steady, sure voice, before finally taking Dean’s cock into his hand, earning a relieved moan._

 

_And then, as if to disabuse Dean of any notions of his hesitancy towards their trip, Castiel uses his mouth once more to show the hunter just how enthusiastic he was._

 

* * *

 

Dean is just getting to the best part of his memory when the Impala lands with a violent thud. It was probably for the best, as he was unlikely to maintain his composure if he delved any deeper into that particular recollection. The first thing Dean does once he’s opened his eyes is make sure everyone’s still in the car, conscious and breathing. The backseat passengers look startled - they were much less accustomed to this method of travel than him and his angel - but they nod, as if to confirm they have indeed arrived in one piece. And then - nearly in unison -  Mary and Sam each remove the hand they had clamped onto each of Castiel’s shoulders.

 

 _Cas. This must have taken a hell of a lot of power to pull off._ Dean turns his attention fully to the angel. He huffs out a quivering breath as he lets go of the Impala’s dashboard. He does not let go of Dean’s hand.

 

Not that Dean minds. As a sort of silent celebration, the two share a pair of matching giddy smiles, toothy and uninhibited, taking advantage of that well-honed skill of speaking with nothing more than glimpses of one another. Examining every indication of joy and pride now splashed across Castiel’s feature, Dean’s never been more convinced: it’s a sight he could spend an entire lifetime appreciating.

 

But eventually, what awaits him beyond the windshield steals his attention. Castiel, in all his infinite wisdom, miraculously managed to park them on some little side street. As Dean glances through what surrounds them peripherally, he’s given little to work with. Most of the windows on this street are unlit - the inhabitants of this neighbourhood have long since gone to sleep. But a streetlight illuminates their surroundings enough that a lone red telephone box is visible nearby. Above it, a street sign. Winchester Avenue.

 

Dean sighs. As if it was that name that assured Cas this was a safe place to anchor.

 

Dean gestures towards the crimson container curiously. “Could be wrong but - didn’t think those were a staple of Paris. Do you think - could you have missed the mark a bit there Cas?” The angel is tight-lipped, turning towards the window under the pretense of observing his surroundings but really - it’s to evade Dean’s inquisition. And so Dean turns again to the back bench, towards his mother and brother. Sam averts his gaze by staring at his shoes. Mary rolls her eyes, appalled at the cowardice of two of her companions. She alone possesses the courage to meet Dean’s confused puppy dog eyes and fess up.

 

“We may have … altered our travel plans. Slightly.” She pauses for a moment, expecting Cas or Sam to jump in. The persistent silence in the wake of her words proves otherwise. Mary soldiers on. Through gritted teeth she elaborates. “Thought that - if we were coming all the way over here - it wouldn’t hurt to spend a few days in London first, now would it?”

 

Dean appreciates her honesty. He really does. But the only way he can seem to embody that appreciation in this moment is to smile entirely too awkwardly at her. Because he is suffering a very private panic. Mary would relish how he nearly made himself sick as he meticulously planned every detail, nauseous at the way in which he seemed to all too easily surrender himself to saccharine sentimentality.  His erratic pulse is pleading to tell her that actually, the unannounced departure from their itinerary could prove to be _incredibly_ problematic indeed.

 

Because once Cas had agreed to the trip, Dean had, quite abruptly, made quite a sizable, non-refundable donation to Paris’s Parks Department. All those mornings spent in the bunker’s library were not for nothing. No, they had proved to be quite useful in devising _the_ Grand Romantic Gesture to put all others to shame.

 

Quickly Dean’s eyes nervously dart to the inaccurate time stubbornly on display on his watch. Once again, mathematical conversions prove to be a more formidable foe than any Wendigo or Werewolf. He tries to calculate the time zone difference for a solid thirty seconds before admitting defeat. For now, an estimate would suffice.

 

Less than two days time. Two sunsets from now a little carved out part of of the _Bois de Vincennes_ would be his and Cas’s and no one else’s.

 

He had chosen each of the wildflowers he’d give to Cas when they started their walk. Selected precisely which boat the two of them would row towards _Île de Reuilly_. Researched relentlessly before settling on the hopefully impressive bottle of wine that’d be waiting for them there. Pictured a hundred times, in every free moment he’d been granted, in every dream he’d been allowed, precisely how it’d look when the sun started to set.

 

When he turned to Cas and asked him.

 

Dean nearly says all of that but can’t. One - because admitting to playing a leading role in some god forsaken chick flick would surely earn him mockery on behalf of his brother for the rest of eternity. But two - and far more importantly - because Cas is right there.

 

So Dean just mutters a mostly convincing “you know best, Mom” before suggesting they get a hotel. And then it’s as if he said some magic combination of words because his younger brother is suddenly very animated, full of exceedingly helpful information and entirely annoying. Sam chimes in to mention to Dean how he _may have_ made a reservation at the Kensington Hotel for the four of them and that Dean should _definitely_ stay on the left hand side of the road and then _most certainly_ the best route to get there was to take Salusbury towards B413 and then maybe to then take a sharp right on Kilburn but then quickly take the roundabout to B450 and Dean might want to take a right on Holland Park and then maybe take the A4204 to Kensington High and then to Queen’s Gate and then before you know it they’re there.

 

The run-on sentence is an editor’s nightmare - but it’s all the evidence Dean needs. For he turns to his brother, with all of his impeccably made plans so easily uttered, with a deadpan expression on his face. A look that says everything Dean’s thinking, the theme of all those thoughts tending to fall under the “this was all your idea, wasn’t it, you terrible traitor” umbrella.

 

* * *

 

“This bed might be my new favourite place in the world,” Cas mumbles, still half-asleep as the morning light begins to pour out from beneath the curtains. The declaration is devoid of any sarcasm whatsoever.

 

Dean wasn’t inclined to disagree. Their bodies are nothing but a mess of limbs wrapped into one another beneath the sheets. There’s part of him that could stay curled into Cas like this until one of his pesky human needs demanded a momentary retreat. Or until his brother came barrelling into the room demanding for them to rise and shine.

 

He’d want to be significantly more clothed if, no, _when_ that happened. So reluctantly, Dean begins to stir, slowly pulling back from the other man’s body.

 

“Stay.” It comes out of Cas’s mouth less like a request and more like a demand. Like all of life’s best demands, it’s accompanied by several conditions to sweeten the deal. Like Cas’s lips latched beneath Dean’s earlobe; like the hand the angel has stretched out across Dean’s thigh.

 

“What’s it going to take to get you up this morning?” Dean asks. The double entendre escapes him, pre-caffeine fix.

 

It does not escape Castiel. One of Dean’s biggest regrets in life is that their camera is still tucked away when the angel does it. Waggles his eyebrows in perfect mimicry of that gesture he had long studied on Dean. Accompanied by the sheets being lifted to assert that he needed absolutely no help getting _up_ this morning.

 

There’s a part of Dean that wants to erupt into laughter at the sight. But there’s another part that wants to take full advantage of what Cas is offering. That part wins.

 

The angel begins to hook his arms around Dean’s trunk, pulling him down into a crushing kiss. But difficult though it may be - Dean demands his terms are met. Sinking his hands beneath Cas’s thighs, lifting him from the sanctuary they had found in the sheets. Whirling frantically out of bed together.

 

* * *

 

Sam pounds against the door as Dean pounds into Castiel against it. Clever kid that he was - it takes no more than one uninhibited moan of Dean’s name before Sam bids a rushed request for them to meet downstairs when they’re … finished.

 

* * *

 

“You look like an idiot in that thing, you know that?” Dean gripes as he shoves far too much of a scone into his mouth, the wayward crumbs falling on Castiel’s lap. The angel was seated to Dean’s left - his brother to his right. His brother who had _insisted_ on donning a Deerstalker for the day’s outing.

 

Anticipating the impending argument, as if on cue, Castiel engages Mary in a suddenly urgent conversation about how wonderful the London Tube system is. Both manage to avoid commenting on Sam’s fashion choice, much to their relief.

 

The younger Winchester - who always had a flair for the dramatic - feigns his best wounded expression, clutching at an invisible string of pearls hanging around his neck. “Are you embarrassed to be seen with me?”

 

Dean swallows the last bite of breakfast before responding. “Always.”

 

Readjusting his hat atop his head, as if to further pronounce the utter lack of shame he had over his light cosplay, Sam prepares his retort. “Well then - I guess we are even. Because I swear - if I have to hear the two of you one more time…”

 

It was clear that Castiel’s audible enthusiasm from this morning was neither forgiven nor forgotten.

 

“Would you look at that! We’re almost there!” Mary announces a little too loudly, as if to remind her _sons_ that a. they are in public and b. even if they weren’t she would rather not hear the sordid details of Dean’s sex life.

 

They were still several stops away from Baker Street, but the comment did as intended, steering the discussion away from what Cas and Dean did behind closed doors.

 

Castiel attempts to engage Sam in some more … suitable conversation. “I never knew you were such a fan of Sherlock Holmes, Sam.”

 

Dean looks past his brother towards his exceedingly kinder partner. “I’m glad I’m able to mostly keep it under wraps but yeah. Huge fan. Bobby he gave me - I think it was my seventh birthday? Anyway, Bobby gave me a copy of the _Complete Works_ when I was younger. Read it over and over until the pages were actually starting to fall out.”

 

It’s a blink and you might miss it moment. A silly grin stretches across Sam’s face, a smile unencumbered by responsibility or regret. For a split second Sam is once again that kid - engrossed in stories - an explorer engaged in adventures of a literary nature. It’s rare for Sam to speak fondly of his childhood. As he talks, Mary hangs on every word. Closing her eyes and trying to picture her boys as … boys.

 

Dean chuckles softly. “It’s true. Can’t tell you in how many different motel rooms he read me ‘Silver Blaze.’”

 

Cas smiles. “The curious incident.”

 

Dean lets his face be significantly more exaggerated than usual in his shock. “Look at that! A reference. Proud of you Cas.”

 

Castiel made an attempt to feign annoyance and exasperation, but the slight upturn of the corner of his lip gave him away.

 

“Anyway - love the stories. Books, TV, movies - all of it. The cases, the characters. It’s my jam. And Holmes and Watson? They’re probably the only two idiots in the world who can hold a candle to you guys when it comes to UST.”

 

“What’s UST?” Mary asks. She draws her eyebrows together, as if she has learned enough in her travels with Team Free Will to possess a sense of uncertainty as to whether she really wants the answer to the question.

 

“Unresolved sexual tension,” Castiel states, matter of factly.

 

“Oh.”

 

Dean rolls his eyes - for all the work he’s done with Cas on what not to say to his mother, sometimes he thinks it went in one ear and out the other. Not that his brother was much better. “Give me a break Sammy.”

 

Sam turns to him, expression solemn. “Dean I am the foremost expert on this matter. How I _suffered_ watching you two dance around each other for _eight years._  You have _no idea_ how annoying that whole drawn-out _will they or won’t they_ thing is.

 

“I think I have some idea.” If Dean’s a little curt in his response, it’s only from years of self imposed repression. Though, he doesn’t hesitate to add, with no small amount of pride, “Besides - our story -  it’s better.”

 

“You’re not _exactly_ objective.” Sam continues, raising a finger to emphasize. Making himself look a little like the lawyer he was perhaps meant to be.

 

Castiel, ever helpful, weighs in. “Actually, Sam - there are at least ten thousand more works of fanmade fiction written about Dean and myself than Sherlock and John. So it seems that, in a sense, Dean is right.”

 

Dean blushes. Not that he ever indulged in said fanfiction. Or told Castiel about it once they’d started being intimate. Or suggested that they may try a few things from said stories. Not at all - it would have been, as the stories say, very out of character.

 

Cas kisses him on the nose knowingly. Their little secret.

 

Sam smiles, admitting defeat - for now. “Okay. You win.”

 

* * *

 

He tried to be a good sport, he really did. He let himself be dragged across that city from one spot to another. He only made one bad joke about the Tower of London being preferable to sharing a room with his brother after roadhouse chili. He was more than happy to have his mom on his arm at the Globe. He even admitted that he might have liked _Much Ado About Nothing_. He told no one that actually - he loved it.  

 

But he’s got that itch to hit the road the next morning. Because this was it - the big day - and he had a schedule to keep, even if no one else knew it. And Dean didn’t really feel like popping the question before having a shower to wash off the road.

 

So the charm of having their breakfast al fresco along the River Thame was lost on him. Because with every sip of coffee Dean’s not so subtly fixated on the minute hand on his watch. Until finally, he’s most certainly gawking at the unbelievably slow pace of the meal. Totally and utterly frustrated with how leisurely everyone else is approaching their leisure time.

 

Mary finally, mercifully asks the question Dean’s been waiting for. “Ready to go?” Dean takes one last look at his wrist. More than enough time to spare.

 

He whistles the entire way to the Impala.

 

“You’re chipper,” Sam observes. “And you barely had one doughnut for breakfast. Starting to think I should take out the silver - make sure you’re not some shapeshifter walking around in my brother’s skin.”

 

Eager to hit the road, Dean slots the key into the car door, hearing it click. But not so eager that he can’t take one more jab in at his brother. As if he could ever resist. “Shapeshifters are so first season, Sammy. You know, before you had a head full of grey hair.”

 

Dean catches a glimpse of Sam’s face in the rearview mirror. “Jerk.”

 

The Impala roars to a start when Dean responds. “Bitch.”

 

* * *

 

Three hundred miles was barely a blip on the Impala’s odometer. Him and Sammy had done impromptu trips for barbeque that were longer. And yet the three hundred miles that separated London and Paris were not standard. True - some of them were underwater and in all of Dean’s time behind the wheel, that certainly was a first. But really, what made these stretches seem so long was the anticipation of what awaited them ahead.

 

Not that the current situation was helping ease his nerves any. He knew his mom was right - he appreciated how she had the good sense of getting a fare for the Impala to pass through the Tunnel, figuring it was too much, too soon to have Castiel zap them all again. But that pit in his stomach seemed to be caverning deeper and deeper. While Dean had learned to let go of the small stuff - to fight against his deep-seated desire to control _everything_ \- his attachment issues to Baby - well, he wouldn’t be himself without those.

 

And so it’s something beyond unsettling to be parked inside a train moving below the sea. The car’s movements controlled by another - its wheels stationary, Dean decidedly not at its helm. Dean’s reciting some silent affirmations to his beloved Impala, telling her _she’s doing great_ and _it’ll all be over soon_ when he sees it out of the corner of his eye.

 

That soft smile curling at the sides of Castiel’s lips - the distinct curiosity illuminating those already bright irises. “This whole thing is rather ingenious,” the angel says, seemingly to himself more than any of his companions in particular. There was no one who admired the marvels of the human mind more.

 

It brings Dean a moment of peace, enough to give him the strength to convince himself that he needs to loosen up. He closes his eyes, rehearsing once again what he’ll say later to the angel. It’s the first time in his life words have seemed so important - not only because what he was going to ask, but because of how they would matter to Castiel. But his speech came to him again clearly and easily - he even adds a few flourishes here and there for variety. He’s well into his fourth rendition of the speech when he notices it. Even behind shut eyes it’s clear - everything’s gone a bit darker.

 

“Relax,” Mary says - unable to see the silhouettes of her fellow passengers but correctly assuming each had braced themselves for battle. Because Dean’s fists clench instinctively as his eyes open, barely able to make out the lines of the dashboard in front of him, his surroundings a nearly uninterrupted shade of pitch black.

 

The emergency lighting flickers on, providing the inhabitants of the Impala with enough light to register the looks of panic on one another’s faces. Stuck some two hundred and fifty feet below sea level.

 

Some mild-mannered voice booms throughout the tunnel’s speakers, explaining that there has been a power outage and that the crew are diligently working to resolve the situation as soon as possible. They are told there is no reason to worry - that everyone should stay calm. That disembodied voice apologizes for the inconvenience.

 

 _An inconvenience_. A momentary setback - that was how Dean knew he should think about their situation. But that sinking feeling in his stomach is trying to convince him otherwise. He’d pissed off Fate once before - maybe she was fucking with him again.

 

Dean scans the tunnel for that blonde villainess, search desperately for something to punch, kick, kill. Because every minute of this is nothing less than excruciating.

 

So much so that he barks a _no_ towards the backseat when Sam suggests they put on some tunes a half hour into their entrapment.

 

So much so that he can’t manage to muster a courteous response when Mary tries to reason that a whole fleet of highly-trained professionals were solving the problem as they spoke. That these things took time - that yes, the past three hours weren’t exactly pleasant, but they’d be moving any minute now.

 

So much so that he doesn’t try to convince Cas he’s fine when their lines of sight meet.  Because after six hours of waiting - knowing that his plans have officially gone to shit, there’s no part of Dean that’s fine in the slightest.

 

Because this couldn’t be coincidence. No - this was some sort of cosmic consequence Dean was being forced to suffer. Whatever being was behind it was cruel and capricious and clever enough to know precisely how to defeat Dean Winchester.

 

He rests his head on the steering wheel as he lets himself slide back and spiral down that familiar path of pessimism and self-pity. Ready to submit to whatever monster or deity had devised such a torture. Today was supposed to be one of the best days of his life. One of those few happy memories to make all the rest tolerable. Dean’s cursing himself for being so stupid to get lost in this little fantasy - these vacations - these trips away - this time with Cas. Because clearly a normal life was something that just wasn’t in the cards for him. And hope - all that hope’s left him with is the feeling of his heart being slowly, mercilessly crushed, knows the tears are starting to well. He barely managing to keep them at bay.

 

Each second hand tick sounds like a taunt. In that car beneath the sea, Dean is near ready to give up hope for his happy ending. Because Fate was telling him - all he had envisioned - it wasn’t meant to be.

 

But then a hand lands on Dean’s shoulder, gently massaging at the tense tissue, trying to provide some small comfort. The hand of a being who had taught Dean a thing or two about dulling Atropos’ scissors; about telling destiny to fuck off.

 

About making it up as they go.

 

The comfort of the contact - gentle and nurturing - it stands in stark defiance of the disappointment of missing their appointment in Paris. His plans were thwarted - perhaps by Fate, perhaps by the failure of an electric generator. But what Dean feels now - he’s weathered worse.

 

He’s endured losses unimaginable. He can still recall how the fire felt behind him - part of him will forever be that four year old fleeing his home with his baby brother clutched within his arms. Of growing up with little more than a handful of preciously guarded memories of that perfect being he knew as _Mom_ , of those few photographs so carefully preserved over the years.

 

But now - she’s here. Fine lines drawn into the contours of her face as she stares out the window patiently. Not some ideal on a pedestal - but real.

Dean’s survived every way his brother could break his heart, sometimes more than once. He’s heard Sammy’s last breath quake from collapsed lungs; watched him say yes to the likes of Lucifer. He’s seen the life leak from his brother and watched his soul be stitched back in. When Dean ventures to look Sammy’s way, his nose is buried deep in a book, his limbs sprawled across the backseat. His brother is here - happy and healthy. Dean protected him, gotten them both this far. The man Sammy - _Sam_ \- has become - having a hand in that is the greatest accomplishment Dean can imagine.

 

Today is tough. But times have been tough before. Those times he wouldn’t allow himself to let go of - no matter how hard they hurt. Like that lake in Kansas that left behind nothing but a battered trench coat. Like the clarity that came in Purgatory - knowing he needed Cas only to return without him. Of the nightmares Dean had after he told Cas _you can’t stay_. Of every time he lost Cas - of how it felt like part of him was lost too.

 

So maybe today wouldn’t play out like a fairy tale. Maybe there’d be no getting down on one knee, maybe the air would smell more like the remnants of road food than roses.

 

Maybe that was okay.

 

Because in that low lit tunnel, deep below the ocean’s surface, Dean’s at home. He’s got his Baby - he’s got his family - he’s got Cas.

 

Suddenly, his plans don’t matter.

 

“Marry me?”

 

When Dean blurts out the question, the way he hears it, it’s as if someone else has said it. In fact, he only realizes he’s said it aloud when the angel responds.

 

“Excuse me?” Castiel asks, looking as lost as ever.

 

Dean takes in a deep breath as he turns towards the angel, taking both of Cas’s hands into his own. “Marry me. I want you to - I want us to be - I’m asking for you to marry me. I had this whole thing planned out - that’s why I was in such a rush to get to Paris. Nearly made myself sick with how sappy it all was, if I’m being honest. Because man - if you had tried to convince me ten years ago that I’d get lost in thoughts of some place called le Temple Romantique - I’d have told you you were nuts.”

 

Dean goes on.

 

“And of course, that would’ve been nice and you deserve nothing less than that Cas - really. But this whole mess - being stuck down here - makes me think you were right. Paris just isn’t our city.”

 

Castiel looks like he’s coming up with some way to convince Dean otherwise, but struggling to find the right words fast enough. But in that moment, Dean doesn’t need reassurance. He needs an answer.

 

“Paris - maybe it’s just not meant to be. But us? You and me? We are.”

 

Both Sam and Mary cannot help but audibly whimper at the admission.

 

“So I’m asking you - in the thing I value most in this world, with the people I love most in this world right here with us - will you marry me?”

 

It’s not the speech Dean had planned but he feels like it’s not half bad.

 

That is, until his hands are suddenly empty. Until Cas leaves, without so much as a word.

 

Along with the angel seems to go every ounce of oxygen within the car. Because as soon as he’s gone - Dean swears he’s forgotten how to breathe. A full minute passes - sixty second hand ticks on Dean’s watch. Sixty seconds without speech - without sympathy or solace. Until Dean vacantly stares ahead and manages a cracked reply.

 

“Not exactly the response I was hoping for.”

 

With that Sam sees his opening. But before he can start to tell him it’s okay, the scenery changes. Steel and concrete replaced by a dozen different shades of lush green; no longer the artificial luminescence of fluorescent, but robust oranges and reds of fading sunlight glittering across tranquil waters.

 

The Impala is on that little island next to that old marble temple. The bustling city is right at the borders but here - now - it’s quiet and serene. Standing next to the lone steel object in sight stands a breathless angel.

 

An angel who apparently had decided to totally disregard the whole “keeping a low profile” thing and had zapped the Impala and all of the bodies inside it from plain sight. But that was a problem they’d figure out later. Because right now - Dean can see that Cas is spent and even though he’s feeling pretty drained himself - that familiar magnetic pull gets him out of the car.

 

Sam and Mary follow suit, hanging back far enough to give the semblance of privacy while still within a close enough range to eavesdrop.

 

Slowly Dean makes his way towards the angel, whose hands have now dropped to his knees as he pants towards the ground. He rubs broad circles across Cas’s canvassed back. Cas tries to stand back up - stumbling a bit over his feet. Dean guides him towards the car’s front. He helps boost the angel up onto the hood and the two men stretch out, side by side.

 

With the Impala firmly beneath him, Dean finally starts to take in his surroundings. Beautiful and quaint, a perfect blend of wild and manicured. It would have been perfect.  

 

In something akin to prayer, Dean wishes he had had his chance.

 

And of course, as always, Cas listens. The rhythm of his breath - it’s got the semblance of normal now. Well enough to give Dean the answer to a question he is keeping to himself.

 

“I wanted to make sure there was a spot for the Impala. I recognize now - my departure may have been untimely. I apologize for my lapse in judgment.”

 

The admission - of Castiel’s intention and his ignorance - it’s exactly what Dean needs in that moment. He curls in close to the angel, resting his head on his chest, listening to the heart beating beneath. It’s racing - Dean hopes for the right reasons.

 

“I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again. I’ll say it always.” Dean interlaces his fingers with the angel’s, imagining what ring would look best around one of those fingers. “Don’t ever change.”

 

Castiel presses a kiss into Dean’s hair. “Every time I look at you, I’m reminded of the first things I assured you. That good things do happen Dean. And you - you are the best thing to ever happen to me.”

 

Every fibre of Dean’s being wants to declare in every language of man that the feeling was wholly mutual.

 

Castiel goes on. “Which is why I - I wanted you to be able to do it here. You deserve this. As you planned.”

 

Dean Winchester had always been a man with a plan. To save people and hunt things - to try to make the world a little bit better, a little bit safer. Falling in love was never part of that. He’d fight and die for other people to have their shot at happiness. That was what he was built for.

 

But then an angel barrelled through Hell and recovered his soul. In the near decade since, Castiel had helped repair parts of that soul Dean was hesitant to admit were broken in the first place.

 

When Castiel tells Dean “he deserves this,” Dean knows he means the setting - the park, the sunset - all of the intricate details he’d imagined. But in that moment, Dean forgoes the panorama for a close-up. Because the _this_ he is finally ready to admit he deserves - it’s right there next to him - as it’s been for some time.

 

Dean is not scared when he asks the question again.

  
Castiel responds steadily and certain, in the best way he knows how. _“Of course.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for coming on this little journey with us. We wanted to give Cas and Dean a little bit of vacation because, dammit, if anyone deserves it, it's those two. And it also gave us a great excuse to stretch our writing muscles, as we wrote about places we ourselves had visited. We even wrote ourselves into the story a few times! But mostly, we wanted a place where everything was fluff and nothing hurt, but stayed true to these characters - and we hope we did that. 
> 
> From Pinkmink: I also want to thank my dearest Rosie for signing up for my crazy in more ways than one. Thank you for inspiring me to be the best writer I can be - and to be the trashiest fangirl I can be. Both things equally.
> 
> From Rosie: I love this ship with the full weight of my fangirl heart. Because these two - their love is so utterly inspiring. But more than that, I love that this ship brings so many kind and creative and wonderful people together. And I am fortunate every day to have Pinkmink in my life - as a fellow writer and a friend. Love you boo.


End file.
